"The girls must have a gentleman apiece," said the old gentleman.
"Jos will be sure to leave Emmy in the crowd, he will be so taken up
with Miss Sharp here. Send to 96, and ask George Osborne if he'll
come."
At this, I don't know in the least for what reason, Mrs. Sedley
looked at her husband and laughed. Mr. Sedley's eyes twinkled in a
manner indescribably roguish, and he looked at Amelia; and Amelia,
hanging down her head, blushed as only young ladies of seventeen
know how to blush, and as Miss Rebecca Sharp never blushed in her
life--at least not since she was eight years old, and when she was
caught stealing jam out of a cupboard by her godmother. "Amelia had
better write a note," said her father; "and let George Osborne see
what a beautiful handwriting we have brought back from Miss
Pinkerton's. Do you remember when you wrote to him to come on
Twelfth-night, Emmy, and spelt twelfth without the f?"
"That was years ago," said Amelia.
"It seems like yesterday, don't it, John?" said Mrs. Sedley to her
husband; and that night in a conversation which took place in a
front room in the second floor, in a sort of tent, hung round with
chintz of a rich and fantastic India pattern, and double with calico
of a tender rose-colour; in the interior of which species of marquee
was a featherbed, on which were two pillows, on which were two round
red faces, one in a laced nightcap, and one in a simple cotton one,
ending in a tassel--in a CURTAIN LECTURE, I say, Mrs.
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