“Where do you go to-night?” said Lady Dartford, wishing to interrupt a conversation which gave her but little pleasure. “Oh, to fifty places; but I came here partly too in the hope of engaging Lady Avondale to come to me to-night. She is a dear soul, and I do not like her the worse for shewing a little spirit.” “I cannot,” said Lady Mandeville, “think there is much in this; a mere caprice, founded on both sides in a little vanity. After seeing Lord Avondale, I cannot believe there is the smallest danger for her. Good heavens, if I had possessed such a husband!” “Oh, now for sentiment,” said Augusta: “and God knows, if I had possessed a dozen such, I should have felt as I do at this moment. Variety—variety! Better change for the worse than always see the same object.” “Well, if you do not allow the merit of Henry Avondale to outweigh this love of variety, what say you to Mr. Buchanan, being her cousin, brought up with her from a child.” “Thanks for the hint—you remember the song of “_Nous nous aimions dès l’enfance Tête-à-Tête à chaque instant._” and I am certain, my dear sentimental friend, that “_A notre place Vous en auriez fait autant._” Then going up to the glass Lady Augusta bitterly inveighed against perverse nature, who with such a warm heart, had given her such an ugly face. “Do you know,” she said, still gazing upon her uncouth features, addressing herself to Lady Dartford—“do you know that I have fallen in love myself, since I saw you;—and with whom do you think?” “I think I can guess, and shall take great credit to myself, if I am right. Is not the happy man an author?” said Lady Dartford.—“You have him, upon my honour—Mr. Clarendon, by all that is wonderful:—he is positively the cleverest man about town.—Well I am glad to see my affairs also make some little noise in the world,”—“I can tell you however,” said Lady Mandeville, “that he is already engaged;—and Lady Mounteagle occupies every thought of his heart.” “Good gracious, my dear, living and loving have done but little for you; and the dead languages prevent your judging of living objects.—Engaged! you talk of falling in love, as if it were a matrimonial contract for life. Now don’t you know that every thing in nature is subject to change:—it rains to-day—it shines to-morrow;—we laugh,—we cry;—and the thermometer of love rises and falls, like the weather glass, from the state of the atmosphere:—one while it is at freezing point;—another it is at fever heat.—How then should the only imaginary thing in the whole affair—the object I mean which is _always purely ideal_—how should that remain the same?”