"As far from it as possible; it may be an excrescence of society; one of its forms; but, by no means, society itself. It would be as true to call cards, which are sometimes introduced in the world, society, as to call a ball given in two small and crowded rooms, society. They are merely two of the modes in which idlers endeavour to vary their amusements." "But we have little else than these balls, the morning visits, and an occasional evening, in which there is no dancing." "I am sorry to hear it; for, in that case, you can have no society." "And is it different at Paris--or Florence, or Rome?" "Very. In Paris there are many houses open every evening to which one can go, with little ceremony. Our sex appears in them, dressed according to what a gentleman I overheard conversing at Mrs. Henderson's would call their 'ulterior intentions,' for the night; some attired in the simplest manner, others dressed for concerts, for the opera, for court even; some on the way from a dinner, and others going to a late ball. All this matter of course variety, adds to the case and grace of the company, and coupled with perfect good manners, a certain knowledge of passing events, pretty modes of expression, an accurate and even utterance, the women usually find the means of making themselves agreeable. Their sentiment is sometimes a little heroic, but this one must overlook, and it is a taste, moreover, that is falling into disuse, as people read better books." "And you prefer this heartlessness, Eve, to the nature of your own country!" "I do not know that quiet, _retenue_, and a good tone, are a whit more heartless than flirting, giggling and childishness. There may be more nature in the latter, certainly, but it is scarcely as agreeable, after one has fairly got rid of the nursery." Grace looked vexed, but she loved her cousin too sincerely to be angry, A secret suspicion that Eve was right, too, came in aid of her affection, and while her little foot moved, she maintained her good- nature, a task not always attainable for those who believe that their own "superlatives" scarcely reach to other people's "positives." At this critical moment, when there was so much danger of a jar in the feelings of these two young females, the library door opened and Pierre, Mr. Effingham's own man, announced-- "Monsieur Bragg." "Monsieur who?" asked Eve, in surprise. "Monsieur Bragg," returned Pierre, in French, "desires to see Mademoiselle." "You mean my father,--I know no such person." "He inquired first for Monsieur, but understanding Monsieur was out, he next asked to have the honour of seeing Mademoiselle." "Is it what they call a _person_ in England, Pierre?" Old Pierre smiled, as he answered-- "He has the air, Mademoiselle, though he esteems himself a _personnage_, if I might take the liberty of judging." "Ask him for his card,--there must be a mistake, I think."