As
Delafield turned his eye, at a little loss to know
whether to be pleased or not with his own humility,
he met a look from Charlotte that more than
rewarded him for the effort. It was a mild,
benevolent, pure glance, that spoke admiration and
heartfelt pleasure. He forgot his solo, and the
expected compliments; and, for the rest of the
evening, that thrilling expression floated in his
brain, and was present to his thoughts; it was
worth a thousand of the studied glances that were
continually aimed at him from all sides of the room,
and with every variety of eye--from the piercing
black, to the ogling gray. It was a look that came
directly from, and went to, the heart. If young
ladies always knew how nicely nature has qualified
the other sex to judge of their actions, what
multitudes of astonishingly expressive glances, and
artfully contrived gestures and movements, would
sink down into looks, that indicated feelings and
motives, that were adapted to the occasion! What
trouble in creating incidents that might draw out
charms would be avoided! And, in short, how much
extra labour, both of body and mind, would be
spared!
This agreeable contemplation of Mr. Delafield was
soon interrupted by the cheerful voice of Maria
Osgood, who cried--
"Bless me, George, you really do look ill."
"It is seldom that I have much health to boast of,"
replied the youth, in a feeble voice, and with a still
feebler smile.
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