Amanda smiled, and resumed her work. She was busily employed making a trimming of artificial flowers for Lady Greystock, to present to a young lady, from whose family she had received some obligations. This was a cheap mode of returning them, as Amanda’s materials were used.
“Your employment is an entertaining one,” said the stranger, “and your roses literally without thorns; such, no doubt, as you expect to gather in your path through life.”
“No,” replied Amanda, “I have no such expectation.”
“And yet,” said he, “how few at your time of life, particularly if possessed of your advantages, could make such a declaration.”
“Whoever had reflection undoubtedly would,” replied Amanda.
“That I allow,” cried he; “but how few do we find with reflection?—from the young it is banished, as the rigid tyrant that would forbid the enjoyment of the pleasures they pant after;—and from the old it is too often expelled, as an enemy to that forgetfulness which can alone insure their tranquillity.”
“But in both, I trust,” said Amanda, “you will allow there are exceptions.”
“Perhaps there are; yet often, when conscience has no reason to dread, sensibility has cause to fear reflection, which not only revives the recollection of happy hours, but inspires such a regret for their loss, as almost unfits the soul for any exertions; ’tis indeed beautifully described in these lines—
“Still importunate and vain, To former joys recurring ever And turning all the past to pain.”
Amanda attentively watched him, and thought what he said appeared particularly applicable to himself, as his countenance assumed a more dejected expression. He revived, however, in a few moments.