She was sensuous; that is to say, she loved good things. She loved to gaze on pretty and happy faces, and the harmony of colours. She loved the sound of music, the smell of flowers, the gliding sensation of a boat; nay, she was not averse to a good dinner, and quaffed iced champagne, not to excess, but _à discrétion_. She had no children herself, and so surrounded herself with those who loved her. These were not toadies, but men of equal rank, whose tastes chimed in with her own. At first she was accused of flirting; but the scandal soon subsided, for it was pure scandal. Even had there been any foundation, a hostess so bountiful would soon have overcome the charge; but with Lady Ilminster there were no thoughts of evil. She did a thousand things others could not do. She rode, she drove, she even smoked, as fancy prompted her; but she was faithful to her lord, though, perhaps, her example stimulated in others freedoms of which she disapproved. Like many women whose conduct is pure, her conversation was not the reflex of her conduct. The party Lady Ilminster gave was to be, as Lady Coxe had declared, very “_shwosi_.” Her recovery from indisposition was the pretext assigned—one of those excuses the hospitable find when, for the sake of pleasure to others, or for the maintenance of their social renown, they think fit to display their leading quality. Preparations had been made, astounding in their extravagance and beauty. The grounds, which sloped down to the river were covered with flowers, tents, and temporary palaces. Lady Ilminster had taste enough to draw that delicate line which separates fairy-land from a tea-garden. In one of these temporary structures a large party of young ladies and gentlemen were assembled eating ices and drinking tea. Lady Coxe was presiding in her magenta dress, nodding from the heat, and fanning with magenta fan her magenta countenance. Florence was talking merrily with a young guardsman; but the conversation generally assumed that tone which, as Mr Whiting describes it, smacks less of the lady than of the reduplicate Φ. “Let us take up our position here,” said one young lady to her partner; “I hate being with the swells.” Lady Coxe heard this; her face more magenta than ever. She ranked herself with the nobility. “Did you see Croquet in the park yesterday,” asked another, “with the prettiest pony?” “Yes; but not such a habit as Julia Fitzwiggins,” burst in a third. “What a waist she has!” “Quite like an hour-glass,” illustrates a guardsman, aloud. “I doubt if it be all real,” interposed another young lady. “What are you talking of?” asked the guardsman. “Of course the rest must be filled with sand,” retorts the first. “A sand-glass in every respect,” murmured Whiting. Lady Coxe nods, puffs, fans, and smiles, not quite understanding what Mr Whiting meant. “Toole, who makes her habits, declares she pads them with brown paper,” resumed the guardsman.