seen a whole
assembly follow her as if by an attraction irresistible: and that night
the great Duke was at the playhouse after Ramillies, every soul turned
and looked (she chanced to enter at the opposite side of the theatre at
the same moment) at her, and not at him. She was a brown beauty: that
is, her eyes, hair, and eyebrows and eyelashes were dark: her hair
curling with rich undulations, and waving over her shoulders; but her
complexion was as dazzling white as snow in sunshine; except her cheeks,
which were a bright red, and her lips, which were of a still deeper
crimson. Her mouth and chin, they said, were too large and full, and so
they might be for a goddess in marble, but not for a woman whose eyes
were fire, whose look was love, whose voice was the sweetest low song,
whose shape was perfect symmetry, health, decision, activity, whose
foot as it planted itself on the ground was firm but flexible, and whose
motion, whether rapid or slow, was always perfect grace--agile as
a nymph, lofty as a queen,--now melting, now imperious, now
sarcastic--there was no single movement of hers but was beautiful. As he
thinks of her, he who writes feels young again, and remembers a paragon.

So she came holding her dress with one fair rounded arm, and her taper
before her, tripping down the stair to greet Esmond.

"She hath put on her scarlet stockings and white shoes," says my lord,
still laughing. "Oh, my fine mistress! is this the way you set your cap
at the Captain?" She approached, shining smiles upon Esmond, who could
look at nothing but her eyes. She advanced holding forward her head, as
if she would have him kiss her as he used to do when she was a child.

"Stop," she said, "I am grown too big! Welcome, cousin Harry," and she
made him an arch curtsy, sweeping down to the ground almost, with the
most gracious bend, looking up the while with the brightest eyes and
sweetest smile. Love seemed to radiate from her. Harry eyed her with
such a rapture as the first lover is described as having by Milton.

"N'est-ce pas?" says my lady, in a low, sweet voice, still hanging on
his arm.

Esmond turned round with a start and a blush, as he met his mistress's
clear eyes. He had forgotten her, rapt in admiration of the filia
pulcrior.

"Right foot forward, toe turned out, so: now drop the curtsy, and show
the red stockings, Trix. They've silver clocks, Harry. The Dowager sent
'em. She went to put 'em on," cries my lord.

"Hus