The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 204: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ST. JAMES’S PALACE 179 newsman would call “‘ the most gracious condescension ”’ on the part of the prince. At the same time, he flung upon Pauline a look which seemed to say, ‘I hope there is no longer any ill-feeling between us,’’ and then his eyes settled upon his lovely, angelic, blushing daughter, that daughter who knew not that she thus stood in her father’s presence. But at the same moment, as he beheld that heavenly creature whose charms so far transcended all the representations which rumour had wafted to his ears, and on whose pure and candid brow chastity sat enthroned in alabaster, while vestal innocence beamed in her azure eyes as the sunlight shines in the clear blue of heaven, as the prince, we say, | thus gazed upon that sweet ethereal creature, he experienced the father’s pride, the parent’s joy, and in a moment of uncontrollable and ineffable feeling he drew forth a small case enclosing the miniature of Octavia, the injured, wronged, and perished mother of that lovely girl. Florence surveyed the prince with the utmost surprise as she witnessed this proceeding, and Pauline, instantly stepping a pace backward, so as to get behind Florence, made a rapid and impatient sign to the prince to warn him of the imprudence of his conduct and chide him for this demonstration of feeling which under the circumstances he ought to have avoided. As for Sir Robert Conway, he stood drawn up in an attitude of attention, but, courtier- like and also childlike, prepared to hear, see, and say nothing. Perhaps it was one of the few fine moments of the prince’s lite when he thus became suddenly pliant and ductile to the influence of a father’s feelings, and forgetting the neces- sity of caution, acknowledged the spontaneous sway of nature over the colder sentiment of prudence. It was one of the very few pathetic chapters in his history, and even Pauline, while signalling him to beware what he did, could not help thinking to herself, ‘‘ This is at least some atonement made to the memory of my deceased sister.” Scarcely had the prince yielded to that sudden and irresistible impulse which thus made him draw forth the miniature portrait of the long dead Octavia, in order to compare it with the living beauty that was now in his presence, when the amazed and even startled look which Florence fixed upon him reminded him of his imprudence, even before he observed the signs which Lady Florimel was Conniclooolks (C(O)