Her face glowed. Miss Byron, said she, in French, is all loveliness. A relation, sir? in Italian.
He bowed; but answered not her question.
I would sooner forgive you here, whispered Lady Olivia to Sir Charles, in
Italian, looking at me, than at Bologna.
I heard her; and by my confusion shewed that I understood her. She was in confusion too.
Mademoiselle, said she, in French, understands Italian.—I am ashamed, monsieur.
Miss Byron does, answered Sir Charles; and French too.
I must have the honour, said she in French, to be better known to you, mademoiselle.
I answered her as politely as I could in the same language.
Lady OLIVIA is really a lovely woman. Her complexion is fine. Her face oval. Every feature of it is delicate. Her hair is black; and, I think, I never saw brighter black eyes in my life: if possible, they are brighter, and shine with a more piercing lustre, than even Sir Charles Grandison's: but yet I give his the preference; for we see in them a benignity, that hers, though a woman's, has not; and a thoughtfulness, as if something lay upon his mind, which nothing but patience could overcome; yet mingled with an air that shews him to be equal to any thing, that can be undertaken by man. While Olivia's eyes shew more fire and impetuosity than sweetness. Had I not been told it, I should have been sure that she has a violent spirit: but on the whole, she is a very fine figure of a woman.
She talked of taking a house, and staying in England a year at least; and was determined, she said, to perfect herself in the language, and to become an Englishwoman: but when Sir Charles, in the way of discourse, mentioned his obligation to leave England, as on next Friday morning, how did she and her aunt look upon each other! And how was the sunshine that gilded her fine countenance, shut in! Surely, sir, said her aunt, you are not in earnest!