"I thank your ladyship," replied the count; "but in this respect I think I am safe, both from the lady and myself."
"How," asked Lady Sara, rather too eagerly, "is your heart?"—She paused and looked down.
"No, madam!" replied he, sighing as deeply as herself: but with his thoughts far from her and the object of their discourse; "I have no place in my heart to give to love. Besides, the quality in which I appear at Lady Dundas's would preclude the vainest man alive from supposing that such notice from any lady there to him could be possible. Therefore, I am safe, though I acknowledge my obligation to your ladyship's caution."
Lady Sara was satisfied with the first part of this answer. It declared that his heart was unoccupied; and, as he had accepted her proffered friendship, she doubted not, when assisted by more frequent displays of her fascinations, she could destroy its lambent nature, and in the end light up in his bosom a similar fire to that which consumed her own.
The unconscious object of all these devices began internally to accuse his vanity of having been too fanciful in the formation of suspicions which on a former occasion he had believed himself forced to admit. Blushing at a quickness of perception his contrition now denominated folly, he found himself at the bottom of Harley Street.
Lady Sara called her servant to walk nearer to her; and telling Thaddeus she should expect him the next evening at Lady Tinemouth's, wished him good-morning.
He was certain that he must have stayed at least half an hour beyond the time when he ought to be with the sisters. Anticipating very haughty looks, and perhaps a reprimand, he knocked at the door, and was again shown into the library. Miss Euphemia was alone.
He offered some indistinct excuse for having made her wait; but
Euphemia, with good-humored alacrity, interrupted him.
"O pray, don't mind; you have made nobody wait but me, and I can easily forgive it; for mamma and my sister chose to go out at one, it being May-day, to see the chimney-sweepers dine at Mrs. Montague's.[Footnote: This was a gay spectacle, and a most kind act to these poor children, who thus once a-year found themselves refreshed and happy. They resorted to the green court-yard of Mrs. Montague's house every May-day, about one o'clock, dressed in their gala wreaths, and sporting with their brushes and shovels, where they found a good dinner, kind words from their hostess and her guests, and each little sweep received a shilling at parting. On the death of Mrs. Montague, this humane and pleasurable spectacle ceased.] They did as they liked, and I preferred staying at home to repeat my lesson."
Thaddeus, thanking her for her indulgence, sat down, and taking the book, began to question her. Not one word could she recollect. She smiled.