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pondering lines upon your brow; may one know what engages your serious contemplation?

The composition, perhaps, of verses for the prettily-bound album of Lady Worrymore.

A book that will not have the honour of being opened by a lady who dislikes poetry.

Nay, a lady of such a character might read that book, I believe, with very little offence. But when its pages are enriched with your sonnet, Mr. Clermont, the case will no doubt be altered.

And, taking that alteration for granted, this same lady will then very willingly abstain entirely from reading it.

Most willingly; she will not even distrust your pretensions so much as to examine the fact.

I believe so. Cards of invitation, billets from a gay baronet, perhaps, or letters from country relations, afford reading enough for a prudent young lady who knows so well how to keep