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She was twenty-three years of age, and it will be readily supposed had been sought in marriage by more than one ardent swain. But she had kept her heart whole: nothing in breeches and stockings and long cut-away coat and salutations adopted from the most approved Parisian styles had touched the passions of Lucy Acton. She was like Emma as painted by Miss Austen: she loved her home, she adored her father, she was perfectly well satisfied with her present state of being, she could not conceive anything in a man that was worth marrying for, and being well, she meant to leave well alone., "Mr Lawrence has a beautiful voice," said[Pg 78] Lucy. "How touchingly he sang 'Tom Bowling'!", "And where, pray, is Lucy?" said Miss Acton, in a voice querulous with alarm and other feelings, for Miss Acton was one of those old ladies who are always praising Providence for its blessings, but who are very willing to find calamity in trifles. "She is a long time gone. Who says that she breakfasted with the Jellybottles? And at what time did she leave the house? And if Mamie went with her why is she here?" she added, turning her eyes upon the little terrier..