“Yes,” said Belinda, “and how much more interesting this picture is to us, from our knowing that it is not a fancy-piece; that the happiness is real, not imaginary: that this is the natural expression of affection in the countenance of the mother; and that these children, who crowd round her, are what they seem to be—the pride and pleasure of her life!”
“There cannot,” exclaimed Mr. Vincent, with enthusiasm, “be a more delightful picture! Oh, Miss Portman, is it possible that you should not feel what you can paint so well?”
“Is it possible, sir,” said Belinda, “that you should suspect me of such wretched hypocrisy, as to affect to admire what I am incapable of feeling?”
“You misunderstand—you totally misunderstand me. Hypocrisy! No; there is not a woman upon earth whom I believe to be so far above all hypocrisy, all affectation. But I imagined—I feared—”
As he spoke these last words he was in some confusion, and hastily turned over the prints in a portfolio which lay upon the table. Belinda’s eye was caught by an engraving of Lady Delacour in the character of the comic muse. Mr. Vincent did not know the intimacy that had subsisted between her ladyship and Miss Portman—she sighed from the recollection of Clarence Hervey, and of all that had passed at the masquerade.
“What a contrast!” said Mr. Vincent, placing the print of Lady Delacour beside the picture of Lady Anne Percival. “What a contrast! Compare their pictures—compare their characters—compare—”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Belinda; “Lady Delacour was once my friend, and I do not like to make a comparison so much to her disadvantage. I have never seen any woman who would not suffer by a comparison with Lady Anne Percival.”
“I have been more fortunate, I have seen one—one equally worthy of esteem—admiration—love.”
Mr. Vincent’s voice faltered in pronouncing the word love; yet Belinda, prepossessed by the idea that he was attached to some creole lady, simply answered, without looking up from her drawing, “You are indeed very fortunate—peculiarly fortunate. Are the West-Indian ladies——”
“West-Indian ladies!” interrupted Mr. Vincent. “Surely, Miss Portman cannot imagine that I am at this instant thinking of any West-Indian lady!” Belinda looked up with an air of surprise. “Charming Miss Portman,” continued he, “I have learnt to admire European beauty, European excellence! I have acquired new ideas of the female character—ideas—feelings that must henceforward render me exquisitely happy or exquisitely miserable.”