“I saw Lady Hawke's name,” quoth I to my first friend, “ascribed to the play of 'Variety.'”[147]
“Did you indeed?” cried Lady Say, in an ecstasy. “Sister! do you know Miss Burney saw your name in the newspapers, about the play!”
“Did she?” said Lady Hawke, smiling complacently. “But I really did not write it; I never wrote a play in my life.”
“Well,” cried Lady Say, “but do repeat that sweet part that I am so fond of—you know what I mean; Miss Burney must hear it,—out of your novel, you know!”
Lady H.-No, I can't; I have forgot it.
Lady S.-Oh, no! I am sure you have not; I insist upon it.
Lady H.-But I know you can repeat it yourself; you have so fine a memory; I am sure you can repeat it.
Lady S.-Oh, but I should not do it justice! that's all,—I should not do it justice!
Lady Hawke then bent forward, and repeated—“'If, when he made the declaration of his love, the sensibility that beamed in his eyes was felt in his heart, what pleasing sensations and soft alarms might not that tender avowal awaken!'”
“And from what, ma'am,” cried I, astonished, and imagining I had mistaken them, “is this taken?”