"Oh! pray tell me--was it to 'white'?" "Nay! 'twas harder than that," he murmurs. "But I think that is monstrous difficult." "Bright, sight, light," (cheerfully) "height," (regretfully) "night," (hopefully) and "fight," (fiercely). "Indeed," adds Phyllida, "I thought of every one of them, but not one would fit the sense." The young gentleman who is a rhymester himself, grows interested. "Might I," says he, "without impertinence inquire your necessity?" "Sure, 'tis for a Valentine," and as Mr. Lovely's face darkens, she hurriedly adds, "for a young lady, a friend of mine, you'll see the direction writ on the flap." His face clears again and he asks, "You wish it delivered?" "Oh, sir! how did you guess?" "By accident, ma'am, or a happy intuition, I stepped out to take the air this fine morning, and chance has discovered for me an incontrovertible excuse for such idle exercise. To be footman to a sister of the Muses is surely appropriate service for a poet." "Then you are a poet?" "My publisher affirms it." "How romantick truly!" but the tail of the sigh is interrupted by her mother's voice, and she has bare time to murmur her thanks, drop a genteel curtsey and vanish. As for Mr. Lovely he has registered a vow to attend the Monday Assembly next week instead of sitting down to Hazard at the _Blue Boar_ Inn. Abovestairs all is confusion because Mrs. Courteen cannot make up her mind between yellow lutestring and orange silk. Phyllida whose heart is full of the dancing springtide thinks her dear mamma should wear the brightest colours and the richest stuffs in the world. "For if you would only allow the curtains to be drawn back, you would see what a golden morning it is outside," she complains to her mother who answers: "Women of fashion, Phyllida, dress by candlelight for candlelight." Betty the maid, agrees with her young mistress, "Sweet, pretty dear lamb," as she asseverates in Hampshire accents, "Orange silk, say I, and God bless the gaulden sun." Mrs. Courteen who is sitting nearly half-undressed and quite incapable of forming a decision, bids Betty go and find out Thomas' opinion. Thomas is the family footman and a great critick of men, women, and religions. Presently Betty comes back and says that Tammas would prefar yaller. "Why, Betty, why?" "Because," answers the maid, "he says silks are for the vain and abominable and lutestrings have a pleasant twang and savour of the psalmist." So Mrs. Courteen turns from yellow sack to orange sack and from primrose-quilted petticoat to apricock-quilted petticoat in despair, till at last Betty asks triumphantly: "How would it be, ma'am, if you was to wear your most elegant and truly genteel green sattin seeing that it do be Saint Valentine with a smell of green leaves in the air?"