But such portraiture is difficult. It is like writing a statue.
“Qui mihi non credit faciat licet ipse periclum, Mox fuerit studis aequior ille meis.”
Harrington Vizard, Esq., caught Miss Fanny Dover on the top round but one of the steps of his library. She looked down, pinkish, and said she was searching for “Tillotson's Sermons.”
“What on earth can you want of them?”
“To improve my mind, to be sure,” said the minx.
Vizard said, “Now you stay there, miss—don't you move;” and he sent for Ina. She came directly, and he said, “Things have come to a climax. My lady is hunting for 'Tillotson's Sermons.' Poor Denison!” (That was the rosy curate's name.)
“Well,” said Fanny, turning red, “I told you I should. Why should I be good any longer? All the sick are cured one way or other, and I am myself again.”
“Humph!” said Vizard. “Unfortunately for your little plans of conduct, the heads of this establishment, here present, have sat in secret committee, and your wings are to be clipped—by order of council.”
“La!” said Fanny, pertly.
Vizard imposed silence with a lordly wave. “It is a laughable thing; but this divine is in earnest. He has revealed his hopes and fears to me.”