Rose, Blanche, and Violet, Volume I by George Henry Lewes

Mrs. Meredith Vyner had not long been in the room before she had spoken to Marmaduke, who, perfectly on his guard, replied with respectful politeness to the observations she from time to time addressed to him. It was impossible for the acutest observer to have suspected there was any _arrière pensée_ in her slightly flurried manner (she was always restless), or in his dignified ease. Two gladiators in the arena never faced each other with greater watchfulness, than this tiny, lively woman -- confident in her skill -- and this self-possessed magnificent Brazilian.

Pellegrini placed himself with his back to the fire and coughed as he thrust one hand into his breast, previously to beginning his recitations. The guests crowded from the other rooms, and disposed themselves to listen, as if they were to understand and greatly relish Alfieri. Mrs. Vyner, taking advantage of this movement, beckoned Marmaduke to follow her, and seating herself at a small table in the inner room, began turning over the leaves of the Keepsake, and then addressing him in an under tone, said: --