them.--All were novels--some French, and some German, of a sort which he
did not like.

"What have you there, Mr. Percy?" said Miss Hauton.--"Nothing worth your
notice, I am afraid. I dare say you do not like novels."

"Pardon me, I like some novels very much."

"Which?" said Miss Hauton, rising and approaching the table.

"All that are just representations of life and manners, or of the human
heart," said Godfrey, "provided they are--"

"Ah! the human heart!" interrupted Miss Hauton: "the heart only can
understand the heart--who, in modern times, can describe the human heart?"

"Not to speak of foreigners--Miss Burney--Mrs. Inchbald--Mrs. Opie," said
Godfrey.

"True; and yet I--and yet--" said Miss Hauton, pausing and sighing.

"And yet that was not what I was thinking of," she should have said, had
she finished her sentence with the truth; but this not being convenient,
she left it unfinished, and began a new one, with "Some of these novels are
sad trash--I hope Mr. Godfrey Percy will not judge of my taste by them:
that would be condemning me for the crimes of my bookseller, who will send
us down everything new that comes out."

Godfrey disclaimed the idea of condemning or blaming Miss Hauton's taste:
"he could not," he said, "be so presumptuous, so impertinent."