ry contains pigments
or words to describe their red? They say she opens her mouth and smiles
always to show the dimples in her cheeks. Psha! she smiles because she
is happy, and kind, and good-humored, and not because her teeth are
little pearls.

All the young fellows crowd up to ask her to dance, and, taking from her
waist a little mother-of-pearl remembrancer, she notes them down. Old
Schnabel for the polonaise; Klingenspohr, first waltz; Haarbart, second
waltz; Count Hornpieper (the Danish envoy), third; and so on. I have
said why I could not ask her to waltz, and I turned away with a pang,
and played ecarte with Colonel Trumpenpack all night.

In thus introducing this lovely creature in her ball-costume, I have
been somewhat premature, and had best go back to the beginning of the
history of my acquaintance with her.

Dorothea, then, was the daughter of the celebrated Speck before
mentioned. It is one of the oldest names in Germany, where her father's
and mother's houses, those of Speck and Eyer, are loved wherever they
are known. Unlike his warlike progenitor, Lorenzo von Speck, Dorothea's
father, had early shown himself a passionate admirer of art; had
quitted home to study architecture in Italy, and had become celebrated
throughout Europe, and been appointed Oberhofarchitect and Kunst- und
Bau-inspektor of the united principalities. They are but four miles
wide, and his genius has consequently but little room to play. What art
can do, however, he does. The palace is frequently whitewashed under
his eyes; the theatre painted occasionally; the noble public buildings
erected, of which I have already made mention.

I had come to Kalbsbraten, scarce knowing whither I went; and having, in
about ten minutes, seen the curiosities of the place (I did not care
to see the King's palace, for chairs and tables have no great charm for
me), I had ordered horses, and wanted to get on I cared not whither,
when Fate threw Dorothea in my way. I was yawning back to the hotel
through the palace-garden, a valet-de-place at my side, when I saw a
young lady seated under a tree reading a novel, her mamma on the same
bench (a fat woman in light blue) knitting a stocking, and two officers,
choked in their stays, with various orders on their spinach-colored
coats, standing by in first attitudes: the one was caressing the
fat-lady-in-blue's little dog; the other was twirling his own moustache,
which was already as nearly as possible curl