He now rejoined Maria, who was dressed with simple, but most attractive loveliness, as a Nun, while William had from some whim taken it into his head to act the part of Ovid. The master of the art of love, at midnight, alone, even with a Nun herself, was dangerous company, tending to demonstrate the fragility of vows. Maria's flutter had been increased rather than diminished, by the scenes of the masquerade; Mrs. Dicky had prevailed on her to take some lemonade, which most unaccountably had the same peculiarity of flavour that she had experienced in the fruit, liqueurs, wine, and coffee. Hamilton having taken her hands, the same kind of conversation insensibly revived, which the coming of masks had, above two hours before, interrupted; Maria was extremely agitated, and when our hero clasping her in his arms, pressed her to
