“Oh! Sir George is very tall and good looking too, and dresses himself very well; but still he does not put on his neckcloth near so well as Lord Fitzhenry; and after all, the neckcloth is the principal thing in a man, and Lady Fitzhenry is certainly the most fortunate of people; but she takes her good luck very quietly, I must say—not even to have talked of her wedding gown! was it not strange?”
By this time every thing was thoroughly admired, examined, and descanted upon in Emmeline’s room, and many a question put to her, which she found rather difficult to answer.
“Well, where do we proceed to next?” said Lady Saville, going out into the gallery. “What room is this?” pointing to Ernest’s.
“Oh! that is Lord Fitzhenry’s,” answered Emmeline hastily; “we had better not go there.”
“Why not?” enquired Lady Saville.
“He may be engaged with business,” replied Emmeline, conscious she was colouring.
“Engaged? why you know he is out hunting twenty miles off; but at any rate, we may knock and demand admission.” And she knocked at the door. No sound was to be heard, and she turned the lock. “Why I really believe, Lady Fitzhenry,” continued she, “you are afraid of going in, for fear of finding all my worthy cousin’s former cheres amies hanging round the room on pegs, like Blue-beard’s wives.”
At this sally, Miss Danvers laughed violently. “I am dying to go in.—Dear Lady Saville, pray, pray open the door; I am sure we shall find something odd.”
Emmeline could think of no further reason to give for not entering; and, in truth, felt rather glad of the opportunity so forced upon her to visit that room where Fitzhenry had passed and still passed so many hours of his life. A person’s apartment is certainly the next best thing to their society, and even ranks in the gratification of our feelings before a letter; we seem to be admitted into all their occupations, even into their very thoughts. Then the little things belonging to them scattered about identify them so much to us. Every one must have experienced this when going into the room that has been inhabited by some dear friend immediately after their departure; the pens they have used still lying wet on the table, the books they had been reading—a glove, or handkerchief forgotten. How strongly do such trifles sometimes affect us, and give us a deceitful feeling of their presence!
Lady Saville had opened the door into Fitzhenry’s room, and Emmeline had gone in with the rest, when luckily, after Miss Selina had expressed her astonishment at Lord Fitzhenry’s sleeping in the little couch bed, and had enquired of Lady Saville whether it was not very droll—a book of French caricatures attracted and fixed the attention of the whole party, and Emmeline was thus left at liberty to look at every thing in the room, and indulge in her own reflections.