This speech was ended with so violent a fit of yawning, that Cecilia would not trouble herself to answer it: but her silence, as before, passed wholly unnoticed, exciting neither question nor comment.
A long pause now succeeded, which he broke at last, by saying, as he writhed himself about upon his seat, “These forms would be much more agreeable if there were backs to them. 'Tis intolerable to be forced to sit like a school-boy. The first study of life is ease. There is, indeed, no other study that pays the trouble of attainment. Don't you think so, ma'am?”
“But may not even that,” said Cecilia, “by so much study, become labour?”
“I am vastly happy you think so.”
“Sir?”
“I beg your pardon, ma'am, but I thought you said—I really beg your pardon, but I was thinking of something else.”
“You did very right, Sir,” said Cecilia, laughing, “for what I said by no means merited any attention.”
“Will you do me the favour to repeat it?” cried he, taking out his glass to examine some lady at a distance.
“O no,” said Cecilia, “that would be trying your patience too severely.”
“These glasses shew one nothing but defects,” said he; “I am sorry they were ever invented. They are the ruin of all beauty; no complexion can stand them. I believe that solo will never be over; I hate a solo; it sinks, it depresses me intolerably.”