‘How may I winne him to myself?
‘He is a man, and men
‘Have imperfections; it behoves
‘Me pardon nature then.’
The Patient Countess.
The next morning, before her maid came to her, Emmeline renewed her search, but with as little success as on the night before. It delayed her dressing; and when she entered the breakfast-room, all were assembled—Mr. Moore coming in at an opposite door at the same minute.
“Who owns a turquoise pin?” said he, in a loud, sententious voice, as he approached the breakfast table, “with some mysterious, and, I conclude, very sentimental letters at the back.”
Fitzhenry, who was reading the newspaper, instantly laid it down. He felt for his brooch, and forgetting that he had not put on any that morning, exclaimed, at the same moment with Emmeline—”I do!” Both looked at each other, and coloured.
“Well, I never knew such a pattern pair,” said Moore; “they have so conscientiously every thing in common, that they have but one brooch between them, and I suppose wear it alternately. Pin of my pin—brooch of my brooch,” added he, laughing: “without the help of Solomon, I really don’t know how to decide the matter between you, for it is quite a law case in his line, and much beyond me.”
“Pray give it me,” said Emmeline, in a low voice, inexpressibly annoyed.