'Done, Cousin Con!' we exclaimed; 'and what shall we wager?'
'Gloves! gloves to be sure!' cried David. 'Ladies always wager gloves; though I can tell you, my Con is on the safe side now;' and David rubbed his hands, delighted with the joke; and _we_ already, in perspective, beheld our glove-box enriched with half-a-dozen pair of snowy French sevens!
Never had we felt more interested in watching the arrivals and movements of strangers, than on this evening, for our honour was concerned, to detect the lovers, and raise the veil. Papas and mammas, and masters and misses, came trooping in; old ladies, and middle-aged; old gentlemen, and middle-aged--until the number amounted to about thirty, and Cousin Con's drawing-rooms were comfortably filled. We closely scrutinised all the young folks, and so intently but covertly watched their proceedings, that we could have revealed several innocent flirtations, but nothing appeared that could lead us to the turtledoves and their engagement. At length, we really had hopes, and ensconced ourselves in a corner, to observe the more cautiously a tall, beautiful girl, whose eyes incessantly turned towards the door of the apartment; while each time it opened to admit any one, she sighed and looked disappointed, as if that one was not the one she yearned to see. We were deep in a reverie, conjuring up a romance of which she was the heroine, when a little lady, habited in gray, whose age might average threescore, unceremoniously seated herself beside us, and immediately commenced a conversation, by asking if we were admiring pretty Annie Mortimer--following the direction of our looks. On receiving a reply in the affirmative, she continued: 'Ah, she's a good, affectionate girl; a great favourite of mine is sweet Annie Mortimer.'
'Watching for her lover, no doubt?' we ventured to say, hoping to gain the desired information, and thinking of our white kid-gloves. 'She is an engaged young lady?'
'Engaged! engaged!' cried the little animated lady: 'no indeed. The fates forbid! Annie Mortimer is not engaged.' The expression of the little lady's countenance at our bare supposition of so natural a fact, amounted almost to the ludicrous; and we with some difficulty articulated a serious rejoinder, disavowing all previous knowledge, and therefore erring through ignorance. We had now time to examine our new acquaintance more critically. As we have already stated, she was habited in gray; but not only was her attire gray, but she was literally gray all over: gray hairs, braided in a peculiar obsolete fashion, and quite uncovered; gray gloves; gray shoes; and, above all, gray eyes, soft, large, and peculiarly sad in expression, yet beautiful eyes, redeeming the gray, monotonous countenance from absolute plainness. Mary Queen of Scots, we are told, had gray eyes; and even she, poor lady, owned not more speaking or history-telling orbs than did this little unknown gossip in gray. But our attention was diverted from the contemplation, by the entrance of another actor on the stage, to whom Annie Mortimer darted forward with an exclamation of delight and welcome. The new-comer was a slender, elderly gentleman, whose white hairs, pale face, and benignant expression presented nothing remarkable in their aspect, beyond a certain air of elegance and refinement, which characterised the whole outward man.