“But, my dear demoiselle, you don’t think that I believe in Ariadne as the Greeks did!” said Madame Rosa. “It’s the art, not the goddess one loves!” “Art!” cried Miss Grandville, disdainfully, “art! What is art, I should like to know, but the worship of the creature. Art is more nearly successful, Madame Floriani, than I am afraid you think it is?” “Ah, mademoiselle! pity me, spare me! I have been brought up among the great things of art, and opened my eyes on the Coliseum--I have lived where Michelangelo worked--I have drank in love of art with my first breath. I cannot forget its rich lessons in this ascetic doctrine of yours. On the contrary, I find in your beautiful country so much to love and admire, that I wonder you are so little gifted with the power of appreciating and reproducing the beauty He has created.” This was a long speech for Madame Rosa, and strangely free from foreign idioms. For she was excited, and forgot to be careful. “My dear Madame,” said Mrs. Bentley, solemnly; “you speak of natural religion only.” “Come! come! we must not discuss theology at a soirée,” she exclaimed, “that would be a misuse of time indeed. Will you waltz, Miss Grandville!” And before that horrified lady could return an answer, the pretty widow had glided across the room in her peculiar manner of grace and lightness; and, going to the piano, dashed into a maddening waltz. Now, to begin with, only two young ladies of the Langthwaite’s society could waltz, and these were the daughters of a retired Captain, who had the good luck to own relatives in London. But they were thought bold and light in Langthwaite (although as good girls as ever breathed), because they went to the opera and the theatres when they were in town, and confessed to the polka, and waltzing. They were very pretty, lively, and good-natured; and when Madame Rosa played her waltz, they both stood up and said, that if others would dance they would. There was no response. Some said, “What bold girls those Miss Winters are!” and others, “Oh! Laura and Helen Winter will go the whole way with any woman of the world! We can’t expect anything from them.” And one old maid, who had never had an offer, nor heard a word of love in her life, bit the end off the adjective “disgusting,” and flounced her shawl--Shetland--tightly round her, as she thanked Heaven, that she had never done such a thing when she was young! And then when Rosa turned round on her music-stool, with her hands in her lap, and said, “Eh bien! who will dance?” Mr. Bentley came up, “Excuse me, Madame Floriani,” he said rather nervously, for the widow looked so arch and lovely, that it required all Langthwaite severity to resist her. “You are a stranger to our customs, and you do not understand us yet. I hope that after you have been among us for a little time we shall be good friends and be able to work together. But we have banished all these frivolities from Langthwaite. My flock, I am happy to say, does not dance.”