‘Where?’ said Lord Eskdale. ‘In the last circle of the Inferno,’ said Sidonia. Lord Eskdale turned to Flora. ‘And in what circle do you place us who are here?’ the Princess inquired of Sidonia. ‘One too polished for his verse,’ replied her companion. ‘You mean too insipid,’ said the Princess. ‘I wish that life were a little more Dantesque.’ ‘There is not less treasure in the world,’ said Sidonia, ‘because we use paper currency; and there is not less passion than of old, though it is _bon ton_ to be tranquil.’ ‘Do you think so?’ said the Princess, inquiringly, and then looking round the apartment. ‘Have these automata, indeed, souls?’ ‘Some of them,’ said Sidonia. ‘As many as would have had souls in the fourteenth century.’ ‘I thought they were wound up every day,’ said the Princess. ‘Some are self-impelling,’ said Sidonia. ‘And you can tell at a glance?’ inquired the Princess. ‘You are one of those who can read human nature?’ ‘’Tis a book open to all.’ ‘But if they cannot read?’ ‘Those must be your automata.’ ‘Lord Monmouth tells me you are a great traveller?’ ‘I have not discovered a new world.’ ‘But you have visited it?’ ‘It is getting old.’ ‘I would sooner recall the old than discover the new,’ said the Princess. ‘We have both of us cause,’ said Sidonia. ‘Our names are the names of the Past.’ ‘I do not love a world of Utility,’ said the Princess. ‘You prefer to be celebrated to being comfortable,’ said Sidonia. ‘It seems to me that the world is withering under routine.’ ‘’Tis the inevitable lot of humanity,’ said Sidonia. ‘Man must ever be the slave of routine: but in old days it was a routine of great thoughts, and now it is a routine of little ones.’ The evening glided on; the dance succeeded the song; the ladies were fast vanishing; Coningsby himself was meditating a movement, when Lord Beaumanoir, as he passed him, said, ‘Come to Lucian Gay’s room; we are going to smoke a cigar.’