S. You have no reason to say so: you are the same to me as ever.
H. That is, nothing. You are to me everything, and I am nothing to you. Is it not too true?
S. No.
H. Then kiss me, my sweetest. Oh! could you see your face now—your mouth full of suppressed sensibility, your downcast eyes, the soft blush upon that cheek, you would not say the picture is not like because it is too handsome, or because you want complexion. Thou art heavenly-fair, my love—like her from whom the picture was taken—the idol of the painter’s heart, as thou art of mine! Shall I make a drawing of it, altering the dress a little, to shew you how like it is?
S. As you please.—
THE INVITATION
H. But I am afraid I tire you with this prosing description of the French character and abuse of the English? You know there is but one subject on which I should ever wish to talk, if you would let me.
S. I must say, you don’t seem to have a very high opinion of this country.
H. Yes, it is the place that gave you birth.
S. Do you like the French women better than the English?