e guitar. However, every one assured her that she had
sung with exquisite expression, and she found quite enough approbation
to satisfy her. A singular misfortune befell her, however, on this
occasion. Among the party there happened to be a poet, whom she hoped
particularly to attach to herself, wishing to induce him to write a song
or two, and address them to her. This evening, therefore, she produced
scarcely anything except songs of his composing. Like the rest of the
party he was perfectly courteous to her, but she had looked for more.
She spoke to him several times, going as near the subject as she dared,
but nothing further could she get. At last, unable to bear it any
longer, she sent one of her train to him, to sound him and find out
whether he had not been delighted to hear his beautiful poems so
beautifully executed.

"My poems?" he replied, with amazement; "pray excuse me, my dear sir,"
he added, "I heard nothing but the vowels, and not all of those;
however, I am in duty bound to express all gratitude for so amiable an
intention." The dandy said nothing and kept his secret; the other
endeavored to get himself out of the scrape by a few well-timed
compliments. She did not conceal her desire to have something of his
which should be written for herself.

If it would not have been too ill-natured, he might have handed her the
alphabet, to imagine for herself, out of that, such laudatory poem as
would please her, and set it to the first melody that came to hand; but
she was not to escape out of this business without mortification. A
short time after, she had to learn that the very same evening he had
written, at the foot of one of Ottilie's favorite melodies, a most
lovely poem, which was something more than complimentary.

Luciana, like all persons of her sort, who never can distinguish between
where they show to advantage and where to disadvantage, now determined
to try her fortune in reciting. Her memory was good, but, if the truth
must be told, her execution was spiritless, and she was vehement without
being passionate. She recited ballad stories, and whatever else is
usually delivered in declamation. At the same time she had contracted an
unhappy habit of accompanying what she delivered with gestures, by
which, in a disagreeable way, what is purely epic and lyric is more
confused than connected with the dramatic.

The Count, a keen-sighted man, soon saw through the party, their
inclinations, dispositions