He dangles his bonnet and plume, and carefully arranges a drop curl. He, the prince of wits, the ornament of ball rooms, the star of the minuet and reel, is suddenly quite dumb, and seems to seek for a subject to discourse upon in surrounding objects.
A happy idea strikes him; a thought occurs to him; he grasps at it with the desperation of a drowning man. He says:
"'Tis a charming day, fairest Belle-bouche—Belinda, I mean. Ah, pardon my awkwardness!"
And the unhappy Corydon betrays by his confusion how much this slip of the tongue has embarrassed him—at least, that he wishes her to think so.
The little beauty smiles faintly, and bending a fatal languishing glance upon her admirer, says:
"You called me—what was it?"
"Ah, pardon me."
"Oh certainly!—but please say what you called me."
"How can I?"
"By telling me," says the beauty philosophically.