Old Song.
And are those follies going,
And is my proud heart growing
Too cold, or wise, for woman’s eyes
Again to set it glowing?
Moore.
The General put on his spectacles, and looked steadfastly at Isabel for at least two minutes. “Turn your head,” he said, at last—“there, to the left.”
Isabel Montford, although an acknowledged beauty, was as amiable as she was admired; she had also a keen appreciation of character; and, though somewhat piqued, was amused by the oddity of her aunt’s old lover. The General was a fine example of the well-preserved person and manners of the past century; beauty always recognizes beauty as a distinguished relative; and Isabel turned her head, to render it as attractive as it could be.
The General smiled, and after gazing for another minute with evident pleasure, he said—“Do me the favor to keep that attitude, and walk across the room.”
Isabella did so with much dignity; she certainly was exceedingly handsome;—her step light, but firm; her figure, admirably poised; her head, well and gracefully placed; her features, finely formed; her eyes and smile, bright and confiding. She would have been more captivating had her dress been less studied; her taste was evidently Parisien rather than classic. The gentleman muttered something, in which the words, “charming,” and “to be regretted,” only met her ear; then he spoke distinctly: