“I think,” said Mrs. Harcourt—after the doctor had taken his leave—“I think I am much better—ring for Grace, and I will get up.”
“Mamma,” said Matilda, “if you will give me leave, I will give my ticket for the reading party to Mad. de Rosier, because, I am sure, it is an entertainment she will like particularly—and, you know, she confines herself so much with us—”
“I do not wish her to confine herself so much, my dear, I am sure,” said Mrs. Harcourt, coldly, for, at this instant, Grace’s representations of the morning’s music and dancing, and some remains of her former jealousy of Mad. de Rosier’s influence over her children’s affections, operated upon her mind. Pride prevented her from explaining herself further to Isabella or Matilda—and though they saw that she was displeased, they had no idea of the reason. As she was dressing, Mrs. Harcourt conversed with them about the books they were reading. Matilda was reading Hogarth’s Analysis of Beauty; and she gave a distinct account of his theory.
Mrs. Harcourt, when she perceived her daughter’s rapid improvement, felt a mixture of joy and sorrow.
“My dears,” said she, “you will all of you be much superior to your mother—but girls were educated, in my days, quite in a different style from what they are now.”
“Ah! there were no Mad. de Rosiers then,” said Matilda, innocently.
“What sort of a woman was your mother, mamma?” said Isabella, “my grandmother, mamma?”
“She—she was a very good woman.”
“Was she sensible?” said Isabella.
“Matilda, my dear,” said Mrs. Harcourt, “I wish you would see if Mad. de Rosier has returned—I should be very glad to speak with her, for one moment, if she be not engaged.”