 thought we only got shawls."
This puzzling answer was only noticed by Vivian; for the truth is, Madame Carolina was one of those individuals who never attend to any person's answers. Always thinking of herself, she only asked questions that she herself might supply the responses. And now having made, as she flattered herself, a splendid display to her favourite critic, she began to consider what had given rise to her oration. Lord Byron and the ballet again occurred to her; and as the Baroness, at least, was not unwilling to listen, and as she herself had no manuscript of her own which she particularly wished to be perused, she proposed that Vivian should read to them part of the Corsair, and in the original tongue. Madame Carolina opened the volume at the first prison scene between Gulnare and Conrad. It was her favourite. Vivian read with care and feeling. Madame was in raptures, and the Baroness, although she did not understand a single syllable, seemed almost equally delighted. At length Vivian came to this passage:
     My love stern Seyd's! Oh, no, no, not my love!
     Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove
     To meet his passion; but it would not be.
     I felt, I feel, love dwells with, with the free.
     I am a slave, a favour'd slave at best,
     To share his splendour, and seem very blest!
     Oft must my soul the question undergo,
     Of, "Dost thou love?" and burn to answer, "No!"
     Oh! hard it is that fondness to sustain,
     And struggle not to feel averse in vain;
     But harder still the heart's recoil to bear,
     And hide from one, perhaps another there;
     He takes the hand I give not nor withhold,
     Its pulse nor checked nor quickened, calmly cold:
     And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight
     From one I never loved enough to hate.
     No warmth these lips return by his imprest,
     And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest.
     Yes, had I ever prov'd that passion's zeal,
     The change to hatred were at least to feel:
     But still, he goes unmourn'd, returns unsought,
     And oft when present, absent from my thought.
     Or when reflection comes, and come it must,
     I fear that henceforth 'twill but bring disgust:
     I am his slave; but, in despite of pride,
     'Twere worse than bondage to become his bride.
"Superb!" said Madame
