beauty of the other, by the gauge of the social distinction or the fashionable _éclat_. She took measure of the gift, as I was taught at Dr Herman’s to take measure of the height of a tower—by the length of the shadow it cast upon the ground. My dear father, with such a wife you would never have lived eighteen years, shivering on the edge of a great book! My dear uncle, with such a wife you would never have been contented with a cork leg and a Waterloo medal! And I understand why Mr Trevanion, “eager and ardent” as ye say he was in youth, with a heart bent on the practical success of life, won the hand of the heiress. Well, you see Mr Trevanion has contrived not to be happy! By the side of my listening, admiring mother, with her blue eyes moist, and her coral lips apart, Lady Ellinor looks faded. Was she ever as pretty as my mother is now? Never. But she was much handsomer. What delicacy in the outline, and yet how decided in spite of the delicacy! The eyebrow so defined—the profile slightly aquiline, so clearly cut—with the curved nostril, which, if physiognomists are right, shows sensibility so keen; and the classic lip that, but for that dimple, would be so haughty. But wear and tear are in that face. The nervous excitable temper has helped the fret and cark of ambitious life. My dear uncle, I know not yet your private life. But as for my father, I am sure that, though he might have done more on earth, he would have been less fit for heaven, if he had married Lady Ellinor. At last this visit—dreaded, I am sure, by three of the party, was over, but not before I had promised to dine at the Trevanions’ that day. When we were again alone, my father threw off a long breath, and looking round him cheerfully, said, “Since Pisistratus deserts us, let us console ourselves for his absence—send for brother Jack, and all four go down to Richmond to drink tea.” “Thank you, Austin,” said Roland. “But I don’t want it, I assure you!” “Upon your honour?” said my father in a half whisper. “Upon my honour.” “Nor I either! So Kitty, Roland, and I will take a walk, and be back in time to see if that young Anachronism looks as handsome as his new London-made clothes will allow him. Properly speaking, he ought to go with an apple in his hand, and a dove in his bosom. But now I think of it, that was luckily not the fashion with the Athenians till the time of Alcibiades!” CHAPTER XXIII. You may judge of the effect that my dinner at Mr Trevanion’s, with a long conversation after it with Lady Ellinor, made upon my mind, when, on my return home, after having satisfied all questions of parental curiosity, I said nervously, and looking down,—“My dear father,—I should like very much, if you have no objection,—to—to—” “What, my dear?” asked my father kindly.