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Her reading had been more extensive than her sister's, embracing most of the fiction in Mr. Procter's circulating library, and nothing but an acquaintance with the course of her studies could afford a clue to the rapid transitions in her dress, which were suggested by the style of beauty, whether sentimental, sprightly, or severe, possessed by the heroine of the three volumes actually in perusal.
Procter, sitting next to me, put his hand on my shoulder, and, with a look expressive of ludicrous pity and contempt for the idiotic speaker, whispered, "And yet Vandyck married the daughter of Earl Gower, poor fellow!" The mock solemnity of Procter's manner was irresistible. It had a wink in it that really embodied the genius of fun and sarcasm.
Procter's conversation was full of endless delight to his friends. His "asides" were sometimes full of exquisite touches. I remember one evening when Carlyle was present and rattling on against American institutions, half comic and half serious, Procter, who sat near me, kept up a constant underbreath of commentary, taking exactly the other side.
And you stop just as soon as they can walk around." "Mrs. Procter cuddles all children in her heart," said Suzanna loyally. "She'd wear her arms out if she cuddled all of us all the time." Maizie didn't answer that. But when little Daphne finally left Mrs. Procter's sheltering clasp and went away to play with the children, Maizie still hovered about her mother.
"I have seen the last look of her heavenly eyes," some of the most poignantly pathetic I know. I afterward read over again Mr. Procter's play; it is extremely well written, but I am afraid it would not act as well as it reads. I believe I told you that "Iñez de Castro" was finally given up. Sally and Lizzy Siddons came and sat with me for some time; they seem well and cheerful.
The count seemed a little past his prime, but was still the handsomest man in London. Procter described him as a brilliant person, of special ability, and by no means a mere dandy. I first saw Procter's friend, John Forster, the biographer of Goldsmith and Dickens, in his pleasant rooms, No. 58 Lincoln's Inn Fields. He was then in his prime, and looked brimful of energy.
"Now you just sit right down here with your back against this tree," Suzanna went on with a delicious air of protection, "and I'll take care of the baby. Close your eyes, dear mother-love, and forget that God sent you a big family and that you've got to do your best by us all like you told Mrs. Reynolds last week." Mrs. Procter's eyes were suddenly overflowing. Children!
"Gods! what a light enveloped her! .... Her beauty Was of that order that the universe Seemed governed by her motion..... The pomp, the music, the bright sun in heaven, Seemed glorious by her leave." One of the most agreeable men in London literary society during Procter's time was the companionable and ever kind-hearted John Kenyon.
At Procter's house the best of England's celebrated men and women assembled, and it was a kind of enchantment to converse with the ladies one met there. It was indeed a privilege to be received by the hostess herself, for Mrs.
"But Miss Smithson said perhaps she could hire the Indian costumes." Mrs. Procter's expression lightened. "Well, perhaps she can," she said. "And if she can't, mother?" Suzanna breathlessly awaited the answer. "Well, we'll manage some way." And Suzanna was satisfied. A week later Mr. Procter returned home, carrying a mysterious looking parcel. "For you, Suzanna," he said, his eyes sparkling.
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