the questions she had asked, she felt more inclined to pardon the answers she had received, and in a short time to fancy she had mistaken contempt for stupidity, and to grow less angry with Miss Leeson than ashamed of herself.
This supposition excited her to make yet another trial of her talents for conversation, and therefore, summoning all the courage in her power, she modestly apologised for the liberty she was taking, and then begged her permission to enquire whether there was anything new in the literary way that she thought worth recommending?
Miss Leeson now turned her eyes towards her, with a look that implied a doubt whether she had heard right; and when the attentive attitude of Cecilia confirmed her question, surprise for a few instants took place of insensibility, and with rather more spirit than she had yet shown, she answered, “Indeed, I know nothing of the matter.”
Cecilia was now utterly disconcerted; and half angry with herself, and wholly provoked with her sullen neighbour, she resolved to let nothing in future provoke her to a similar trial with so unpromising a subject.
She had not, however, much longer to endure the examination of Sir Robert, who being pretty well satisfied with staring, turned upon his heel, and was striding out of the room, when he was stopt by Mr Gosport, who for some time had been watching him.
Mr Gosport was a man of good parts, and keen satire: minute in his observations, and ironical in his expressions.
“So you don’t play, Sir Robert?” he cried.
“What, here? No, I am going to Brookes’s.”
“But how do you like Harrel’s ward? You have taken a pretty good survey of her.”
“Why, faith, I don’t know; but not much, I think; she’s a devilish fine woman, too; but she has no spirit, no life.”
“Did you try her? Have you talked to her?”
“Not I, truly!”
“Nay, then how do you mean to judge of her?”
“O, faith, that’s all over, now; one never thinks of talking to the women by way of trying them.”
“What other method, then, have you adopted?”
“None.”
“None? Why, then, how do you go on?”
“Why, they talk to us. The women take all that trouble upon themselves now.”
“And pray how long may you have commenced fade macaroni? For this is a part of your character with which I was not acquainted.”
“Oh, hang it, ’tis not from ton; no, it’s merely from laziness. Who the d —— l will fatigue himself with dancing attendance upon the women, when keeping them at a distance makes them dance attendance upon us?”
Then stalking from him to Mr Harrel, he took him by the arm, and they left the room together.
Mr Gosport now advanced to Cecilia, and addressing her so as not to be heard by Miss Leeson, said, “I have been wishing to approach you, some time, but the fear that you are already overpowered by the loquacity of your fair neighbour makes me cautious of attempting to engage you.”
“You mean,” said Cecilia, “to laugh at my loquacity, and indeed its ill success has rendered it sufficiently ridiculous.”
“Are you, then, yet to learn,” cried he, “that there are certain young ladies who make it a rule never to speak but to their own cronies? Of this class is Miss Leeson, and till you get into her particular coterie, you must never expect to hear from her a word of two syllables. The TON misses, as they are called, who now infest the town, are in two divisions, the SUPERCILIOUS, and the VOLUBLE. The SUPERCILIOUS, like Miss Leeson, are silent, scornful, languid, and affected, and disdain all converse but with those of their own set: the VOLUBLE, like Miss Larolles, are flirting, communicative, restless, and familiar, and attack without the smallest ceremony, every one they think worthy their notice. But this they have in common, that at home they think of nothing but dress, abroad, of nothing but admiration, and that every where they hold in supreme contempt all but themselves.”
“Probably, then,” said Cecilia, “I have passed tonight, for one of the VOLUBLES; however, all the advantage has been with the SUPERCILIOUS, for I have suffered a total repulse.”
“Are you sure, however, you have not talked too well for her?”
“O, a child of five years old ought to have been whipt for not talking better!”
“But it is not capacity alone you are to consult when you talk with misses of the TON; were their understandings only to be considered, they would indeed be wonderfully easy of access! in order, therefore, to render their commerce somewhat difficult, they will only be pleased by an observance of their humours: which are ever most various and most exuberant where the intellects are weakest and least cultivated. I have, however, a receipt which I have found infallible for engaging the attention of young ladies of whatsoever character or denomination.”
“O, then,” cried Cecilia, “pray favour me with it, for I have here an admirable opportunity to try its efficacy.”
“I will give it you,” he answered, “with full directions. When you meet with a young lady who seems resolutely determined not to speak, or who, if compelled by a direct question to make some answer, drily gives a brief affirmative, or coldly a laconic negative ——”
“A case in point,” interrupted Cecilia.
“Well, thus circumstanced,” he continued, “the remedy I have to propose consists of three topics of discourse.”
“Pray what are they?”
“Dress, public places, and love.”
Cecilia, half surprised and half diverted, waited a fuller explanation without giving any interruption.
“These three topics,” he continued, “are to answer three purposes, since there are no less than three causes from which the silence of young ladies may proceed: sorrow, affectation, and stupidity.”
“Do you, then,” cried Cecilia, “give nothing at all to modesty?”
“I give much to it,” he answered, “as an excuse, nay almost as an equivalent for wit; but for that sullen silence which resists all encouragement, modesty is a mere pretence, not a cause.”
“You must, however, be somewhat more explicit, if you mean that I should benefit from your instructions.”
“Well, then,” he answered, “I will briefly enumerate the three causes, with directions for the three methods of cure. To begin with sorrow. The taciturnity which really results from that is attended with an incurable absence of mind, and a total unconsciousness of the observation which it excites; upon this occasion, public places may sometimes be tried in vain, and even dress may fail; but love —”
“Are you sure, then,” said Cecilia, with a laugh, “that sorrow has but that one source?”
“By no means,” answered he, “for perhaps papa may have been angry, or mama may have been cross; a milliner may have sent a wrong pompoon, or a chaperon to an assembly may have
