“I am not sure that I like the comparison to the butterfly,” said Fanny, smiling. “The butterfly is the emblem of all that is fickle—all that is idle except for its yielding to its fickleness. It is beautiful, but nothing else.”
He laughed.
“I am rebuked,” he said. “But with us the butterfly is the symbol of the life—of the soul. Assume that and you will, I think, see that I meant not to hint at the beauty of the frivolity, but at the beauty of the soul. I feel that a woman's life has on it the bloom of a butterfly's wing, and if that is once breathed on, its beauty is gone for ever—the woman's life is never again what it was—what it was meant to be. But if you wish, I will not go beyond the violet as my emblem of the best woman—my woman.”
“I thank heaven that I have no voice,” said Fanny gently, after a pause. Young Mr. North-cote, Sir Joshua's pupil, had approached Mrs. Burney—his eye was on Susy—in order to tell her that tea was being served in the drawing-room.
Mrs. Burney thanked him and took the arm that he offered.
“We shall all go in together,” said Mrs. Burney, with a sign to Fanny.
But Rauzzini contrived to evade her eye by renewing his admiration of the “St. Cecilia.”
“If I could but reproduce in song the effect that flows from her face I should be the greatest singer in the world,” said he.
“You need not envy her,” said Fanny. “Do you remember Mr. Handel's setting of 'Alexander's Feast '?”
“Only an aria or two.”