sketch for me--a slight thing--for sketches, I think, show the
freedom of art better than finished pieces--I dote on the first
coruscations of genius--flashing like lightning from the cloud!--You
shall make a sketch for my boudoir--my dear sulky den at Air Castle, and
Clara Mowbray shall sit for the Ghost Ladye."

"That would be but a poor compliment to your ladyship's friend," replied
Tyrrel.

"Friend? We don't get quite that length, though I like Clara very
well.--Quite sentimental cast of face--I think I saw an antique in the
Louvre very like her--(I was there in 1800)--quite an antique
countenance--eyes something hollowed--care has dug caves for them, but
they are caves of the most beautiful marble, arched with jet--a straight
nose, and absolutely the Grecian mouth and chin--a profusion of long
straight black hair, with the whitest skin you ever saw--as white as the
whitest parchment--and not a shade of colour in her cheek--none
whatever--If she would be naughty, and borrow a prudent touch of
complexion, she might be called beautiful. Even as it is, many think her
so, although surely, Mr. Tyrrel, three colours are necessary to the
female face. However, we used to call her the Melpomene of the Spring
last season, as we called Lady Binks--who was not then Lady Binks--our
Euphrosyne--did we not, my dear?"

"Did we not what, madam?" said Lady Binks, in a tone something sharper
than ought to have belonged to so beautiful a countenance.

"I am sorry I have started you out of your reverie, my love," answered
Lady Penelope. "I was only assuring Mr. Tyrrel that you were once
Euphrosyne, though now so much under the banners of Il Penseroso."

"I do not know that I have been either one or the other," answered Lady
Binks; "one thing I certainly am not--I am not capable of understanding
your ladyship's wit and learning."

"Poor soul," whispered Lady Penelope to Tyrrel; "we know what we are, we
know not what we may be.--And now, Mr. Tyrrel, I have been your sibyl to
guide you through this Elysium of ours, I think, in reward, I deserve a
little confidence in return."

"If I had any to bestow, which could be in the slightest degree
interesting to your ladyship," answered Tyrrel.

"Oh! cruel man--he will not understand me!" exclaimed the lady--"In
plain words, then, a peep into your portfolio--just to see what objects
you have rescued from natural decay, and rendered immortal by the
pencil. You do not know--indeed, Mr. Tyr