"Whose?" said I.
"Mine," she answered.
"It's all very well, but your birthday is not in July——"
"I never fancied March to be born in," she replied imperturbably, "and I've changed it."
"And who are you going to bid to the feast of your adopted birthday?"
"You," she said, "and Sandy, and Jamie Henderlin, for he's back from Germany, and I want to hear him play."[3 ]
It is altogether hopeless to set in cold words the charm of her as she stood before me that morning in her white frock, her hair in a bunch of curls on top of her head and some posies in her hand. I have seen many pretty women in my time, some few handsome ones, but Nancy Stair is the only one I ever saw who deserved to be described as beautiful. The fashion-prints of the day were full of her, and I have one account before me, printed at the very time of which I write, 1786:
"Miss Stair," it reads, "is just back from London, where for two years she has studied her voice with Trebillini.
"Her beauty is bewildering; her gowns the acme of elegance and feminine grace; her wit, her eyes, her lips, the toast of the town. Her songs, a second printing of which is being clamored for, are being read over the Three Kingdoms, with a letter from his Royal Majesty, George III, on the fly-leaf commending them. When it is known that she is to attend service at St. Giles the clubs are emptied and half the beaux of the town may be found on their knees where they can have a view of her. The greatest statesmen and lawyers of the day are her intimate friends, and the crowds follow her in admiration when she drives through the streets."
A good picture, but scant, for there is not a word in it of her heart, the kindest and bravest that ever beat in woman's breast, nor her great love and tenderness to all created things.