Belinda and Mr. Hervey assured her that they had used no such mean arts, that nothing had been concerted between them.
“How came this leaf of myrtle here, then?” said Lady Delacour.
“I was reading that story yesterday, and left it as my mark.”
“I cannot help believing you, because you never yet deceived me, even in the merest trifle: you are truth itself, Belinda. Well, you see that you were the cause of my drawing such an extraordinary lot; the book would not have opened here but for your mark. My fate, I find, is in your hands: if Lady Delacour is ever to be la femme comme il y en a peu, which is the most improbable thing in the world, Miss Portman will be the cause of it.”
“Which is the most probable thing in the world,” said Clarence Hervey. “This myrtle has a delightful perfume,” added he, rubbing the leaf between his fingers.
“But, after all,” said Lady Delacour, throwing aside the book, “This heroine of Marmontel’s is not la femme comme il y en a peu, but la femme comme il n’y en a point.”
“Mrs. Margaret Delacour’s carriage, my lady, for Miss Delacour,” said a footman to her ladyship.
“Helena stays with me to-night—my compliments,” said Lady Delacour.
“How pleased the little gipsy looks!” added she, turning to Helena, who heard the message; “and how handsome she looks when she is pleased!—Do these auburn locks of yours, Helena, curl naturally or artificially?”
“Naturally, mamma.”