“If it displeases you.  Sir, I will dress otherwise in a minute.”

“You look well in any thing.  But I thought you’d have been better dressed.  Yet it would never have less become you; for of late your eyes have lost that brilliancy that used to strike me with a lustre, much surpassing that of the finest diamonds.”

“I am sorry for it, Sir.  But as I never could pride myself in deserving such a kind of compliment, I should be too happy, forgive me, my dearest Mr. B., if the failure be not rather in your eyes, than in mine.”

He looked at me steadfastly.  “I fear, Pamela—­But don’t be a fool.”

“You are angry with me.  Sir?”

“No, not I.”

“Would you have me dress better?”

“No, not I. If your eyes looked a little more brilliant, you want no addition.”  Down he went.

Strange short speeches, these, my lady, to what you have heard from his dear mouth!—­“Yet they shall not rob me of the merit of a patient sufferer, I am resolved,” thought I.

Now, my lady, as I doubted not my rival would come adorned with every outward ornament, I put on only a white damask gown, having no desire to vie with her in appearance; for a virtuous and honest heart is my glory, I bless God!  I wish the countess had the same to boast of!

About five, their ladyships came in the countess’s new chariot:  for she has not been long out of her transitory mourning, and dressed as rich as jewels, and a profusion of expense, could make her.

I saw them from the window alight.  O how my heart throbbed!—­“Lie still,” said I, “busy thing! why all this emotion?—­Those shining ornaments cover not such a guileless flatterer as thou.  Why then all this emotion?”

Polly Barlow came up instantly from Mr. B.

I hastened down; tremble, tremble, tremble, went my feet, in spite of all the resolution I had been endeavouring so long to collect together.

Mr. B. presented the countess to me, both of us covered with blushes; but from very different motives, as I imagine.

“The Countess of—–­, my dear.”

She saluted me, and looked, as I thought, half with envy, half with shame:  but one is apt to form people’s countenances by what one judges of their hearts.

“O too lovely, too charming rival!” thought I—­“Would to heaven I saw less attraction in you!”—­For indeed she is a charming lady; yet she could not help calling me Mrs. B., that was some pride to me:  every little distinction is a pride to me now—­and said, she hoped I would excuse the liberty she had taken:  but the character given of me by Mr. B. made her desirous of paying her respects to me.

“O these villainous masquerades,” thought I!—­“You would never have wanted to see me, but for them, poor naughty Nun, that was!”

Mr. B. presented also the Viscountess to me; I saluted her ladyship; her sister saluted me.