"Emma is delightful, is not she?" whispered Margaret; "I have found her more than answer my warmest hopes. Did you ever see anything more perfectly beautiful? I think even _you_ must be a convert to a brown complexion." He hesitated. Margaret was fair herself, and he did not particularly want to compliment her; but Miss Osborne and Miss Carr were likewise fair, and his devotion to them carried the day. "Your sister's complexion," said he, at last, "is as fine as a dark complexion can be; but I still profess my preference of a white skin. You have seen Miss Osborne? She is my model for a truly feminine complexion, and she is very fair." "Is she fairer than me?" Tom made no reply. "Upon my honour, ladies," said he, giving a glance over his own person, "I am highly indebted to your condescension for admitting me in such dishabille into your drawing-room. I really did not consider how unfit I was to be here, or I hope I should have kept my distance. Lady Osborne would tell me that I was growing as careless as her son if she saw me in this condition." The ladies were not wanting in civil returns, and Robert Watson, stealing a view of his own head in an opposite glass, said with equal civility-- "You cannot be more in dishabille than myself. We got here so late that I had not time even to put a little fresh powder into my hair." Emma could not help entering into what she supposed her sister-in-law's feelings at the moment. When the tea-things were removed, Tom began to talk of his carriage; but the old card-table being set out, and the fish and counters, with a tolerably clean pack brought forward from the buffet by Miss Watson, the general voice was so urgent with him to join their party, that he agreed to allow himself another quarter of an hour. Even Emma was pleased that he would stay, for she was beginning to feel that a family party might be the worst of all parties; and the others were delighted. "What's the game?" cried he, as they stood round the table. "Speculation, I believe," said Elizabeth. "My sister recommends it, and I fancy we all like it. I know _you_ do, Tom." "It is the only round game played at Croydon now," said Mrs. Robert; "we never think of any other. I am glad it is a favourite with you." "Oh! _me_," said Tom. "Whatever you decide on will be a favourite with _me_. I have had some pleasant hours at speculation in my time; but I have not been in the way of it for a long while. Vingt-un is the game at Osborne Castle. I have played nothing but vingt-un of late. You would be astonished to hear the noise we make there--the fine old lofty drawing-room rings again. Lady Osborne sometimes declares she cannot hear herself speak. Lord Osborne enjoys it famously, and he makes the best dealer without exception that I ever beheld--such quickness and spirit; he lets nobody dream over their cards. I wish you could see him overdraw himself on both his own cards. It is worth anything in the world!"