A GLIMPSE OF MRS. PIOZZI.
Sunday, May 2.—This morning, in my way to church, just as I arrived at the iron gate of our courtyard, a well-known voice called out, “Ah, there’s Miss Burney!”
I started, and looked round—and saw—Mrs. Piozzi! I hastened up to her; she met my held-out hand with both hers: Mr. Piozzi an Cecilia[329] were with her—all smiling and good-humoured.
“You are going,” she cried, “to church?—so, am I. I must run first to the inn: I suppose one—may sit—anywhere one pleases?”
“Yes,” I cried, “but you must be quick, or you will sit nowhere, there will be such a throng.” This was all;—she hurried on,—so did I.
I received exceeding great satisfaction in this little and unexpected meeting. She had been upon the Terrace, and was going to change her hat, and haste on both sides prevented awkwardness on either.
Yet I saw she had taken in good part my concluding hand-presentation at my dear Mr. Locke’s:[330] she met me no more with that fierte of defiance: it was not—nor can it ever be with her old cordiality, but it was with some degree of pleasure, and that species of readiness which evinces a consciousness of meeting with a good reception.