"I look upon you as a scholar, Mr. Howard," said the young lady, laughing.
"I cannot plead guilty to the impeachment, Miss Osborne."
"But I do not consider you particularly awkward nor intolerably bashful—and—what was the third crime you laid to the charge of scholars?"
"I forget."
"What intolerable affectation," cried Miss Osborne, "you want to be accused of absence of mind. But here we are at the gallery. Now, Miss Watson, make Mr. Howard tell you all about them."
The collection was really a very good one, and Emma was delighted. Miss Osborne looked at two or three, then sauntered about the room—looked out of the window—and, at length, returning to her companions, said:
"I have just recollected an engagement, for which I must leave you—I will be back as soon as I can; but don't hurry, and don't wait for me. You may be quite comfortable here, nobody will disturb you."
She then left them to another protracted tête-à-tête; a particularly pleasant circumstance to Mr. Howard, who found an increasing charm in Emma's conversation.
When tired of walking about and straining their eyes upwards, they sat down on a comfortable sofa in a recess, where they could at once enjoy the view of a beautiful landscape, and converse comfortably.
"You surely must have been used to look at good paintings," said Mr. Howard, "It is a taste that requires as much cultivation as any other art. You evidently know how to look at a picture, and how to appreciate its merit."