“She'll never look as good as you do if she lives till she's a hundred,” says my lord, taking his mother by the waist, and kissing her hand.
“Do I look very wicked, cousin?” says Beatrix, turning full round on Esmond, with her pretty face so close under his chin, that the soft perfumed hair touched it. She laid her finger-tips on his sleeve as she spoke; and he put his other hand over hers.
“I'm like your looking-glass,” says he, “and that can't flatter you.”
“He means that you are always looking at him, my dear,” says her mother, archly. Beatrix ran away from Esmond at this, and flew to her mamma, whom she kissed, stopping my lady's mouth with her pretty hand.
“And Harry is very good to look at,” says my lady, with her fond eyes regarding the young man.
“If 'tis good to see a happy face,” says he, “you see that.” My lady said, “Amen,” with a sigh; and Harry thought the memory of her dear lord rose up and rebuked her back again into sadness; for her face lost the smile, and resumed its look of melancholy.
“Why, Harry, how fine we look in our scarlet and silver, and our black periwig,” cries my lord. “Mother, I am tired of my own hair. When shall I have a peruke? Where did you get your steenkirk, Harry?”
“It's some of my Lady Dowager's lace,” says Harry; “she gave me this and a number of other fine things.”
“My Lady Dowager isn't such a bad woman,” my lord continued.
“She's not so—so red as she's painted,” says Miss Beatrix.