"Is it?" asked Philip again. "Well, it looks like the rule of contrary to me. But you see I have no vocation. Now look at the lady who stands on my mother's left--the one in primrose. Do you see her? "I see her," said Celia. "I like her face better than some of the others. Who is she?" "The Marchioness de Simiane,[2] daughter of the Countess de Grignan, and granddaughter of the late clever Marchioness de Sévigné. Her flatterers call her an angel. She is not that, but I don't think she is quite so near the other set of ethereal essences as a good many of the people in this room." "What an opinion you have of your friends, Philip!" "My friends, are they?" responded Philip, with a little laugh. "How many of them do you suppose would shed tears at my funeral? There is not one of them who has a heart, my dear--merely lumps of painted stone, as I told you. These are not men and women--they are only walking statues." "Do you call that cross little man a walking statue?" asked Celia, smiling. "He!--scarcely; he is too intensely disagreeable." "I should rather like to see the lady to whom you said that man took a fancy, Philip. Is she here?" "Ah! my Sister," answered Philip, in a graver voice than any in which he had yet spoken, "you must go to the royal vaults at St. Denis, and search among the coffins, to do that. She was buried twenty years ago.[3] She was so unfortunate as to have a heart, and he has a piece of harder marble even than usual. So when the two articles met, the one broke the other." "I never can tell whether you are jesting or serious, Philip." "A little of both generally, my dear. Don't lose those ladies who are going through the courtesying process now--they are distinguished people. The elder one is the Duchess du Maine,[4] one of the daughters of the Prince of Condé, who is emphatically '_the_ Prince' in French society. The younger is Mademoiselle de Noailles,[5] the daughter of the Duke de Noailles--a famous belle, as you may see. She will probably be disposed of in a year or two to some Prince or Duke--whoever offers her father the best lump of pin-money. We don't sell young ladies in the market here, as they do in Barbary; we manage the little affair in private. But 'tis a sale, for all that." "It sounds very bad when you look at it in that light, Philip." "A good many things do so, my dear, when you strip off the gilding. His Majesty gave a cut of his walking-stick once to a gentleman with whom he was in a passion, and was considered to have honored him by that gracious notice. Now, if he had been the Baron's son, and the other the King, whipping to death would have been thought too good for him after such an insult to Majesty. We live in a droll world, my Sister." "But, Philip, there must be differences between people--God has made it so."