We were engaged the other day in making some purchases at Flint’s, when Lady Honoria Saville entered, attended by the Hon. George Comyn. As the lady is a professed coquette, and the gentleman a professed dangler, we conceived it by no means improper to play the listener; for the conversation of these characters is seldom such as to require much secrecy. We therefore placed ourselves in a convenient situation for hearing whatever was said by the beau, the belle, and the milliner, which last I consider the most rational person of the three. The questions which were put to her by her ladyship escaped us; they seemed to be conveyed, not in the language of common mortals, but in signs which were to us incomprehensible. Without exposing ourselves to the notice of either party, we were beyond measure amused at the timely aid which the milliner’s descriptions of her wares afforded to the lover’s description of his passion; for whenever the latter was at a loss for words, the former stepped in to finish his sentence, and occasionally gave a point to it, in which lovers’ vows are generally deficient. When they first made their appearance, the gentleman was deposing upon oath to the truth of something of which his companion seemed to entertain doubts. He had run through some of the usual forms of adjuration, such as Sun, Moon, Stars, Venus, and Blue Eyes, when he was stopped by “Lovers’ vows, Comyn! lovers’ vows! Where do they come from?” “Where?” repeated the gentleman, in a theatrical attitude; “they come from a sincere affection, from a passionate heart, from a devoted adoration, from----” “From Paris, I assure you, madam,” said the milliner, who was turning over some silks. “But I wonder, Comyn!” resumed her ladyship, “I wonder you can continue to bore me with this nonsense! Lovers’ vows have given me the vapours these last five years, and, after all, what are they worth?” “Worth!” reiterated the fop; “they are worth the mines of Peru, the diamonds of Golconda, the sands of Pactolus!” “They are worth five shillings a pair, madam,” said the milliner, “and it’s really throwing them away.” She was talking of some kid gloves. “You gentlemen,” said her ladyship, “must think us very weak creatures, if you fancy that we are to be imposed upon by any folly you choose to utter. Lovers’ vows have been proverbial since the days of Queen Bess, and it would be strange if, in 1820, we should not have found out what they are made of.” “In my case,” said the exquisite, “your ladyship is cruel in supposing them to be made of anything but the purest sincerity.” “They are made of the finest materials,” said the milliner, “and your ladyship can see through them like glass.” She was holding up to the window some stuff with a hard name, which we know nothing about. “Say what you will, Comyn,” said her ladyship, Men were deceivers ever; One foot on sea, and one on shore, To one thing constant never.