for about ten days; a confinement to which she submitted with extreme impatience: bodily pain she bore with fortitude, but constraint and ennui she could not endure. One morning as she was sitting up in bed, looking over a large collection of notes, and cards of inquiry after her health, she exclaimed-- “These people will soon be tired of[4] bidding their footman put it into their heads to inquire whether I am alive or dead--I must appear amongst them again, if it be only for a few minutes, or they will forget me. When I am fatigued, I will retire, and you, my dear Belinda, shall represent me; so tell them to open my doors, and unmuffle the knocker: let me hear the sound of music and dancing, and let the house be filled again, for Heaven’s sake. Dr. Zimmermann should never have been my physician, for he would have prescribed solitude. Now solitude and silence are worse for me than poppy and mandragora. It is impossible to tell how much silence tires the ears of those who have not been used to it. For mercy’s sake, Marriott,” continued her ladyship, turning to Marriott, who just then came softly into the room, “for mercy’s sake, don’t walk to all eternity on tiptoes: to see people gliding about like ghosts makes me absolutely fancy myself amongst the shades below. I would rather be stunned by the loudest peal that ever thundering footman gave at my door, than hear Marriott lock that boudoir, as if my life depended on my not hearing the key turned.” “Dear me! I never knew any lady that was ill, except my lady, complain of one’s not making a noise to disturb her,” said Marriott. “Then to please you, Marriott, I will complain of the only noise that does, or ever did disturb me--the screaming of your odious macaw.” Now Marriott had a prodigious affection for this macaw, and she defended it with as much eagerness as if it had been her child. “Odious! O dear, my lady! to call my poor macaw odious!--I didn’t expect it would ever have come to this--I am sure I don’t deserve it--I’m sure I don’t deserve that my lady should have taken such a dislike to me.” And here Marriott actually burst into tears. “But, my dear Marriott,” said Lady Delacour, “I only object to your macaw--may not I dislike your macaw without disliking you?--I have heard of ‘love me, love my dog;’ but I never heard of ‘love me, love my bird’--did you, Miss Portman?” Marriott turned sharply round upon Miss Portman, and darted a fiery look at her through the midst of her tears. “Then ‘tis plain,” said she, “who I’m to thank for this;” and as she left the room her lady could not complain of her shutting the door after her too gently.