“Nobody, mamma; no one put it into my head. But I was at the bird-fancier’s yesterday, when Miss Portman was trying to get some bird for Mrs. Marriott, that could not make any noise to disturb you; so I thought my fishes would be the nicest things for you in the world; because they cannot make the least noise, and they are as pretty as any birds in the world--prettier, I think--and I hope Mrs. Marriott thinks so too.” “I don’t know what Marriott thinks about the matter, but I can tell you what I think,” said Lady Delacour, “that you are one of the sweetest little girls in the world, and that you would make me love you if I had a heart of stone, which I have not, whatever some people may think.--Kiss me, my child!” The little girl sprang forwards, and threw her arms round her mother, exclaiming, “Oh, mamma, are you in earnest?” and she pressed close to her mother’s bosom, clasping her with all her force. Lady Delacour screamed, and pushed her daughter away. “She is not angry with you, my love,” said Belinda, “she is in sudden and violent pain--don’t be alarmed--she will be better soon. No, don’t ring the bell, but try whether you can open these window-shutters, and throw up the sash.” Whilst Belinda was supporting Lady Delacour, and whilst Helena was trying to open the window, a servant came into the room to announce the Count de N----. “Show him into the drawing-room,” said Belinda. Lady Delacour, though in great pain, rose and retired to her dressing-room. “I shall not be able to go down to these people yet,” said she; “you must make my excuses to the count and to every body; and tell poor Helena I was not angry, though I pushed her away. Keep her below stairs: I will come as soon as I am able. Send Marriott. Do not forget, my dear, to tell Helena I was not angry.” The reading party went on, and Lady Delacour made her appearance as the company were drinking orgeat, between the fourth and fifth act. “Helena, _my dear_,” said she, “will you bring me a glass of orgeat?” Clarence Hervey looked at Belinda with a congratulatory smile: “do not you think,” whispered he, “that we shall succeed? Did you see that look of Lady Delacour’s?” Nothing tends more to increase the esteem and affection of two people for each other than their having one and the same benevolent object. Clarence Hervey and Belinda seemed to know one another’s thoughts and feelings this evening better than they had ever done before during the whole course of their acquaintance. After the play was over, most of the company went away; only a select party of _beaux esprits_ stayed to supper; they were standing at the table at which the count had been reading: several volumes of French plays and novels were lying there, and Clarence Hervey, taking up one of them, cried, “Come, let us try our fate by the Sortes Virgilianae.” Lady Delacour opened the book, which was a volume of Marmontel’s Tales. “La femme comme il y en a peu!” exclaimed Hervey.