"But I must. Dear Miss Portman, will you speak for me? I must pay--I must settle--and I have a great deal to say."
Miss Portman desired the old man to call in Berkley-square at Lady Delacour's; and this satisfying all parties, they drove away.
When they arrived in Berkley-square, Marriott told them that her lady was just gone to lie down. Edward Percival's little journal, which she had been reading, was left on the sofa, and Belinda gave it to Helena, who eagerly began to look over it.
"Thirteen pages! Oh, how good he has been to write so much for me!" said she; and she had almost finished reading it before her mother came into the room.
Lady Delacour shrunk back as her daughter ran towards her; for she recollected too well the agony she had once suffered from an embrace of Helena's. The little girl appeared more grieved than surprised at this; and after kissing her mother's hand, without speaking, she again looked down at the manuscript.
"Does that engross your attention so entirely, my dear," said Lady Delacour, "that you can neither spare one word nor one look for your mother?"
"Oh, mamma! I only tried to read, because I thought you were angry with me."
"An odd reason for trying to read, my dear!" said Lady Delacour with a smile: "have you any better reason for thinking I was angry with you?"
"Ah, I know you are not angry now, for you smile," said Helena; "but I thought at first that you were, mamma, because you gave me only your hand to kiss."
"Only my hand! The next time, simpleton, I'll give you only my foot to kiss," said her ladyship, sitting down, and holding out her foot playfully.
Her daughter threw aside the book, and kneeling down kissed her foot, saying, in a low voice, "Dear mamma, I never was so happy in my life; for you never looked so very, _very_ kindly at me before."
"Do not judge always of the kindness people feel for you, child, by their looks; and remember that it is _possible_ a person might have felt more than you could guess by their looks. Pray now, Helena, you are such a good judge of physiognomy, should you guess that I was dying, by my looks?"
The little girl laughed, and repeated "Dying? Oh, no, mamma."
"Oh, no! because I have such a fine colour in my cheeks, hey?"