I was charmed with the idea of conversing with an agreeable young lady, who was apparently in the best of spirits, and of being at the same time aware that she was the prey to despair. There had been moments during the evening when I was almost able to fancy that I could hear the "worm i' the bud"; but while Miss Lamb's cheek was not exactly damask, it did not, on the other hand, look as though it had furnished many repasts. It was merely a very sound and normal specimen of its kind. All the better. It was, perhaps—nay, probably—a mask, behind which lurked who could say what chagrins and disenchantments. In our future intercourse with Miss Lamb I was eagerly on the look-out for signs of hidden anguish, while John was searching for proofs that she did not write poetry. It may as well be confessed that one of us was not much more successful than the other; that there was nothing in her appearance or behavior to make Miss Lamb seem other than rather a finished
