Nearly two hours were spent by the young man in the company of Miss Fenton, when he went away, more prepossessed in her favor than he had yet been. She had played her part to admiration. The truth was, Wordsworth, except in a few pieces, she had voted a dull book. By tasking herself, she had mastered some passages, to which she referred during the evening, and thus obtained credit for being far more familiar with the poet of nature than she ever was or ever would be. She went upon the principle of making a sensation, and thus carrying hearts, or the heart she wished to assault, by storm.
"I believe that I really love that girl," Henry Clarence said, on the evening before the party at Mrs. Walsingham's to a young friend.
"Who, Melvina Fenton?"
"Yes."
"She is certainly a beautiful girl."
"And interesting and intelligent."
"Yes—I know of no one who, in comparison with her, bears off the palm."
"And still, there is one thing about her that I do not like. She is too fond of dress and display."
"O, that is only a little foible. No one is altogether perfect."
"True—and the fault with me is, in looking after perfection."