“You may rest assured they know it all below stairs. That odious Lady Janet has told it in every dressing-room already.”
“And Linton, mamma,” said Caroline, whose sisterly feelings were merged in most impartial justice,—“only fancy Linton imitating Aunt Fanny's benediction with uplifted hands and eyes. I almost think I see him before me, and hear the insolent shouts of laughter on every side.”
“Give me the aromatic vinegar!” cried Mrs. Kennyfeck, with an accent like suffocation.
“I think there 's some one at the door. Come in,” cried Miss Kennyfeck; and a very smartly dressed groom entered with a note.
“Is there any answer to this?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, listlessly, who thought it one of the habitual invitations to some excursion in a carriage or on horseback.
“Yes, my Lady,” said the servant, bowing.
The title sounded pleasantly, and Mrs. K.'s features relaxed as she broke the seal.
Ah, Mrs. Kennyfeck, indolently and carelessly as you hold that small epistle in your fingers, it cost him who wrote it many a puzzling thought, and many a fair sheet of foolscap. Critics assure us that style is no criterion of the labor of composition, and that Johnson's rounded periods ran flippantly off the pen, while the seemingly careless sentences of Rousseau cost days and nights of toil. The note was from Sir Harvey Upton, and neither by its caligraphy nor grammar shed lustre on the literary genius of his corps. It went thus:—
My dear Madam,—The beauty and fascinations of your
daughters—but more especially of the second—have
conspired to inspire me with sentiments of respectful
admiration, which may speedily become something warmer
should I obtain the gratifying sensation of your
approbation.
Family, fortune, and future expectations, will I fancy, be
found “all right.”
Part of the estate entailed on the baronetcy; encumbrances,
a trifle.
I am, waiting your reply, dear madam, Very respectfully
yours,
Harvey Upton,
——Hussars.
“Shall we write, Cary?” whispered Mrs. Kennyfeck, in the very faintest of tones.