“I’ll try, Lady Bell,” he promised, “if you’ll point out to me one man or woman of your fine fashionables—remember, I don’t say civilians, I hope I’m not such a swaggering fire-eater as to confine merit to one or both of the services—who, in his or her different circumstances, has shown half the ingenuity and energy, not to say resignation, which my friend the Admiral was privileged, as you put it not incorrectly, to display.” “Oh, come, sir!” cried Lady Bell with spirit, dropping her assumption of meekness, “I shall not have far to seek to confute your argument, and I shall take a woman in order to cover you with confusion. True, I don’t say she has kindled a fire with flints, or dug up roots with her fingers, or knocked down birds with a stick; but I conclude that you—an educated gentleman—consider ingenuity and energy may be well bestowed in other respects than in relieving mere gross, bodily wants.” “I grant you that, Lady Bell.” “Do you see the lady in the silver gauze?—not there, and that is not silver gauze, that is white brocade, while the wearer is only charming Lady Hesketh. No, here, the slight young lady in the silver gauze, with the fine hair in a wave above her forehead, and the high aquiline nose—do you know what she is famous for?” “No; I must admit my ignorance.” “Not for her beauty, although you may see she is beautiful; not for being gallant General Conway’s daughter; not even for being wife of my Lord Milton’s son, who has the finest wardrobe in London—finer even than thirty thousand a year will stand, folks swear; for men can be as vain as women sometimes, and a great deal more reckless in their vanity. But Mrs. Damer puts on a mob cap and canvas apron, and with those little white hands wields mallet and chisel, as well as moulds in wax and clay. She hath done groups of animals as true as life, and busts of men and women—their speaking images. She is a great sculptor, sir, such as Mr. Bacon or Mr. Nollekens. What do you say to that?” Lady Bell wound up her peroration by making a profound curtsey. “It is all gospel, Harry,” Lady Sundon confirmed the account. “They tell me that pretty stylish woman is so far left to herself that she likes nothing better than muddling among wet blocks and splinters of stone, and hewing away like any stonemason.” “I stand corrected,” admitted Harry Fane honestly, addressing himself to Lady Bell. “I honour the lady both for her capacity and determination.”