It was some half dozen evenings or so before Emily was quite tired—but the past pleasant had degenerated into the present wearisome, that sure prophecy of the future odious—when, on the fifth evening, as he was leaning over her chair at the Opera, and, either in the way of idleness or experiment, his speeches were more than usually sentimental;—by way of diversion, Emily began questioning; and "Who is in that box? Do you know that person in the pit?" turned the enemy most scientifically.
Next to saying sweet things, Mr. Sillery loved saying sour; judge, therefore, if he was not entertaining.
A headach induced Lady Alicia to leave before the opera was half over. While waiting in the crush-room, Mrs. Fergusson and her daughters stopped to exchange those little nonentities of speech called civilities.
"Quite an attaché," said Miss Fergusson, in an audible sneer, as she turned from Emily and Mr. Boyne Sillery.
That night Emily meditated very seriously on the propriety of repressing attentions of which she was tired. It is curious to observe how soon we perceive the impropriety of departed pleasures. Repentance is a one-faced Janus,
