mistaken. She became only the more gracious to Foker: she praised him,
and every thing belonging to him; she praised his mamma; she praised
the pony which he rode in the Park; she praised the lovely breloques
or gimcracks which the young gentleman wore at his watch-chain, and
that dear little darling of a cane, and those dear little delicious
monkeys' heads with ruby eyes, which ornamented Harry's shirt, and
formed the buttons of his waistcoat. And then, having praised and
coaxed the weak youth until he blushed and tingled with pleasure, and
until Pen thought she really had gone quite far enough, she took
another theme.

"I am afraid Mr. Foker is a very sad young man," she said, turning
round to Pen.

"He does not look so," Pen answered with a sneer.

"I mean we have heard sad stories about him. Haven't we, mamma? What
was Mr. Poyntz saying here, the other day, about that party at
Richmond? O you naughty creature!" But here, seeing that Harry's
countenance assumed a great expression of alarm, while Pen's wore a
look of amusement, she turned to the latter and said, "I believe you
are just as bad: I believe you would have liked to have been
there--wouldn't you? I know you would: yes--and so should I."

"Lor, Blanche!" mamma cried.

"Well, I would. I never saw an actress in my life. I would give any
thing to know one; for I adore talent. And I adore Richmond, that I
do; and I adore Greenwich, and I say I _should_ like to go there."