Miss Elizabeth was large and masculine in all her proportions, with an ungraceful stoop in her shoulders, coarse and prominent features, staring blue eyes, a brilliant and exquisite complexion, and most unusually beautiful hair. Her manners were intended to be easy and nonchalant, while in truth, to the eyes of true refinement, they were unpardonably bold and rude. Miss Tyler had persuaded herself she was a _wit_, her sayings had sometimes occasioned so much laughter, and she delighted to use her fancied power everywhere, and on all occasions, shooting the shafts of her sarcasm and irony hither and thither without delicacy, civility, or mercy. She dressed gaudily and expensively, while her father drudged behind the counter of his “hardware and leather establishment,” early and late to support such enormous and unnecessary expenditures. She read novels “all night,” and was familiar with the fate of every hero and heroine, from those of Bulwer, Eugene Sue, and George Sand, down to the prettiest specimen of “yellow-covered literature” for sale in small retail beer-shops, or peddled in railroad cars by newsboys. She gloried in the unfeminine and unprincipled habit of laughing at and ridiculing people in their very presence, if their backs were turned, and especially _country people_; was strangely familiar with strangers; laughed and talked very loud in the streets, shops, and public conveyances, _et cetera_. Dear reader, I need not fill my outline more definitely; with a blush for the honor of my sex, I am compelled to admit there is more than _one_ Elizabeth Tyler in “these degenerate days!” Well, the next day after Mrs. Tyler and her daughter arrived Mrs. Varley gave a very extensive invitation to the _ton_ of the village, to assemble at her house in the evening, to pay their respects and make the acquaintance of her most distinguished visiters. The invitation, of course, included Mr. Style, Mrs. Tower, and Jessie Lincoln, concerning whom they had unaccountably neglected to make any inquiries, strange as it may seem, when she was the object of such nervous anxiety. From eight till nine, poor Charlotte sat on the sofa by the side of Miss Tyler, terribly dispirited, and eagerly watching for the announcement of the Rev. Mr. Style. Elizabeth rallied her in vain; she scarcely remembered to introduce her friend, and tried fruitlessly to be amused by Elizabeth’s coarse and unladylike satires on the really elegant company as they entered. By and by Charlotte and Elizabeth simultaneously started; Charlotte rose from her seat, and Miss Tyler suddenly seized her arm, as if to detain her till some surprise was explained, and leveled her quizzing-glass deliberately at a group who were that moment exchanging salutations with Mrs. Varley near the door. “There is Mr. Style! that’s him! that splendid figure!” whispered Charlotte, who had neither eyes nor ears for any one else.