s not wounded; on the
contrary, he roared with laughter at the remark, and some of us smiled
who understood the humour of the joke. As for George Warrington, he
scarce knew more about the town than the ladies opposite to him; who,
yet more innocent than George, thought the champagne very good. Mrs.
Sherrick was silent during the meal, looking constantly up at her
husband, as if alarmed and always in the habit of appealing to that
gentleman, who gave her, as I thought, knowing glances and savage winks,
which made me augur that he bullied her at home. Miss Sherrick was
exceedingly handsome: she kept the fringed curtains of her eyes
constantly down; but when she lifted them up towards Clive, who was very
attentive to her (the rogue never sees a handsome woman but to this day
he continues the same practice)--when she looked up and smiled, she was
indeed a beautiful young creature to behold--with her pale forehead, her
thick arched eyebrows, her rounded cheeks, and her full lips slightly
shaded,--how shall I mention the word?--slightly pencilled, after the
manner of the lips of the French governess, Mademoiselle Lenoir.

Percy Sibwright engaged Miss Mackenzie with his usual grace and
affability. Mrs. Mackenzie did her very utmost to be gracious, but it
was evident the party was not altogether to her liking. Poor Percy,
about whose means and expectations she had in the most natural way in
the world asked information from me, was not perhaps a very eligible
admirer for darling Rosey. She knew not that Percy can no more help
gallantry than the sun can help shining. As soon as Rosey had done
eating up her pineapple, artlessly confessing (to Percy Sibwright's
inquiries) that she preferred it to the rasps and hinnyblobs in her
grandmamma's garden, "Now, dearest Rosey," cries Mrs. Mack, "now, a
little song. You promised Mr. Pendennis a little song." Honeyman whisks
open the piano in a moment. The widow takes off her cleaned gloves (Mrs.
Sherrick's were new, and of the best Paris make), and little Rosey sings
No. 1, followed by No. 2, with very great applause. Mother and daughter
entwine as they quit the piano. "Brava! brava!" says Percy Sibwright.
Does Mr. Clive Newcome say nothing? His back is turned to the piano, and
he is looking with all his might into the eyes of Miss Sherrick.

Percy sings a Spanish seguidilla, or a German lied, or a French romance,
or a Neapolitan canzonet, which, I am bound to say, excites very little
atte