"Sir?"
"I beg your pardon, ma'am, but I thought you said—I really beg your pardon, but I was thinking of something else."
"You did very right, sir," said Cecilia, laughing, "for what I said by no means merited any attention."
"Will you do me the favor to repeat it?" cried he, taking out his glass to examine some lady at a distance.
"Oh no," said Cecilia, "that would be trying your patience too severely."
"These glasses shew one nothing but defects," said he; "I am sorry they were ever invented. They are the ruin of all beauty; no complexion can stand them. I believe that solo will never be over! I hate a solo; it sinks, it depresses me intolerably."
"You will presently, sir," said Cecilia, looking at the bill of the concert, "have a full piece; and that I hope will revive you."
"A full piece! oh, insupportable! it stuns, it fatigues, it overpowers me beyond endurance! no taste in it, no delicacy, no room for the smallest feeling."
"Perhaps, then, you are only fond of singing?"
"I should be, if I could hear it; but we are now so miserably off in voices, that I hardly ever attempt to listen to a song, without fancying myself deaf from the feebleness of the performers. I hate everything that requires attention. Nothing gives pleasure that does not force its own way."