 pray favour us with a touch of the Pyrrhic dance, Sir Philip."
Lady Delacour spoke with such polite earnestness, and the baronet had so little penetration and so much conceit, that he did not suspect her of irony: he eagerly began to exhibit the Pyrrhic dance, but in such a manner that it was impossible for human gravity to withstand the sight—Rochfort laughed first, Lady Delacour followed him, and Clarence Hervey and Belinda could no longer restrain themselves.
"Damme, now I believe you've all been quizzing me," cried the baronet, and he fell into a sulky silence, eyeing Clarence Hervey and Miss Portman from time to time with what he meant for a knowing look. His silence and sulkiness lasted till Clarence took his leave. Soon afterward Belinda retired to the music-room. Sir Philip then begged to speak a few words to Lady Delacour, with a face of much importance: and after a preamble of nonsensical expletives, he said that his regard for her ladyship and Miss Portman made him wish to explain hints which had been dropped from him at times, and which he could not explain to her satisfaction, without a promise of inviolable secresy. "As Hervey is or was a sort of a friend, I can't mention this sort of thing without such a preliminary."—Lady Delacour gave the preliminary promise, and Sir Philip informed her, that people began to take notice that Hervey was an admirer of Miss Portman, and that it might be a disadvantage to the young lady, as Mr. Hervey could have no serious intentions, because he had an attachment, to his certain knowledge, elsewhere.
"A matrimonial attachment?" said Lady Delacour.
"Why, damme, as to matrimony, I can't say; but the girl's so famously beautiful, and Clary has been constant to her so many years——"
"Many years! then she is not young?"
"Oh, damme, yes, she is not more than seventeen,—and, let her be what else she will, she's a famous fine girl. I had a sight of her once at Windsor, by stealth."
And then the baronet described her after his manner.—"Where Clary keeps her now, I can't make out; but he has taken her away from Windsor. She was then with a gouvernante, and is as proud as the devil, which smells like matrimony for Clary."
"And do you know this peerless damsel's name?"
"I think the old Jezebel called her Miss St. Pierre—ay
