Mrs. Somers, in the course of four-and-twenty hours, found a multitude of proofs in support of her opinion; but they were none of them absolutely satisfactory to Lady Littleton’s judgment. Whilst they were debating about her character, Emilie came into the room to show Mrs. Somers a French translation, which she had been making, of a pretty little English poem, called “The Emigrant’s Grave.” It was impossible to be displeased with the translation, or with the motive from which it was attempted; for it was done at the particular request of Mrs. Somers. This lady’s ingenuity, however, did not fail to discover some cause for dissatisfaction. Mlle. de Coulanges had adapted the words to a French, and not to an English air.
“This is a favourite air of mamma’s,” said Emilie, “and I thought that she would be pleased by my choosing it.”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Somers, in her constrained voice, “I remember that the Countess de Coulanges and her friend—or your friend—M. de Brisac, were charmed with this air, when you sang it the other night. I found fault with it, I believe—but then you had a majority against me; and with some people that is sufficient. Few ask themselves what constitutes a majority—numbers or sense. Judgments and tastes may differ in value; but one vote is always as good as another, in the opinion of those who are decided merely by numbers.”
“I hope that I shall never be one of those,” said Emilie. “Upon the present occasion I assure you, my dear Mrs. Somers, that I was influenced by—”
“Oh! my dear Mlle. de Coulanges,” interrupted Mrs. Somers, “you need not give yourself the trouble to explain about such a trifle—the thing is perfectly clear. And nothing is more natural than that you should despise the taste of a friend when put in competition with that of a lover.”
“Of a lover!”
“Yes, of a lover. Why should Mlle. de Coulanges think it necessary to look astonished? But young ladies imagine this sort of dissimulation is becoming; and can I hope to meet with an exception, or to find one superior to the finesse of her sex?—I beg your pardon, Mlle. de Coulanges, I really forgot that Lady Littleton was present when this terrible word lover escaped—but I can assure you that frankness is not incompatible with her ideas of delicacy.”
“You are mistaken, dear Mrs. Somers; indeed you are mistaken,” said Emilie; “but you are displeased with me now, and I will take a more favourable moment to set you right. In the mean time, I will go and water the hydrangia, which I forgot, and which I reproached myself for forgetting yesterday.”
Emilie left the room.
“Are you convinced now, my dear Lady Littleton,” cried Mrs. Somers, “that this girl has no soul—and very little heart?”