Says I, quickly, "Music!" and triumphed a moment or two.
But the snarling old fellow asked whether I liked her singing, or her
flattery? For his part, he thought we both liked to hear our own
voices, and agreed in nothing else. Taste, indeed! when I would not
let her sing a song I cared a fillip for.
In short, my self-communion ended in some very sage resolutions. I
feared the beautiful head with the shining curls was somewhat
vacant. And the heart,--was that empty likewise? Or was that hidden
cell the home of all the loveliest affections, the firmest and purest
faith and motive, every thing that should be there to rule the
life--and--my picture on the wall? A question this.--Does she love me?
"O yes!" answered vanity. "O no!" said good sense, "not at all. If
your picture is in her heart, it is one of a whole gallery. Don't be
a fop. It is not your character. Don't let Flora make a fool of you."