“He does not know what that means,” said Theodora; “and he is so natural and so sweet-tempered, and so intelligent, that it seems to me he always is popular.” “Do you think that will be a match?” said Monsignore Catesby to Miss Arundel. “Well, I rather believe in the Duke of Brecon,” she replied. They were referring to Lord Carisbrooke, who appeared to be devoted to Lady Corisande. “Do you admire the American lady?” “Who is an Italian, they tell me, though she does not look like one. What do you think of her?” said the monsignore, evading, as was his custom, a direct reply. “Well, I think she is very distinguished: unusual. I wonder where our host became acquainted with them? Do you know?” “Not yet: but I dare say Mr. Bohun can tell us;” and he addressed that gentleman accordingly as he was passing by. “Not the most remote idea,” said Mr. Bohun. “You know the colonel is not a Yankee; he is a tremendous swell. The duke says, with more land than he has.” “He seems an agreeable person,” said Miss Arundel. “Well, he tell anecdotes; he has just been telling one; Granville likes anecdotes; they amuse him, and he likes to be amused: that is all he cares about. I hate anecdotes, and I always get away when conversation falls into, what Pinto calls, its anecdotage.” “You do not like to be amused?” “Not too much; I like to be interested.” “Well,” said Miss Arundel, “so long as a person can talk agreeably, I am satisfied. I think to talk well a rare gift; quite as rare as singing; and yet you expect every one to be able to talk, and very few to be able to sing.” “There are amusing people who do not interest,” said the monsignore, “and interesting people who do not amuse. What I like is an agreeable person.” “My idea of an agreeable person,” said Hugo Bohun, “is a person who agrees with me.” “Talking of singing, something is going to happen,” said Miss Arundel. A note was heard; a celebrated professor had entered the room and was seated at the piano, which he had just touched. There was a general and unconscious hush, and the countenance of Lord St. Aldegonde wore a rueful expression. But affairs turned out better than could be anticipated. A young and pretty girl, dressed in white, with a gigantic sash of dazzling beauty, played upon the violin with a grace, and sentimental and marvellous skill, and passionate expression, worthy of St. Cecilia. She was a Hungarian lady, and this was her English debut. Everybody praised her, and every body was pleased; and Lord St. Aldegonde, instead of being bored, took a wondrous rose out of his button-hole and presented it to her. The performance only lasted half an hour, and then the ladies began to think of their bowers. Lady St. Aldegonde, before she quit the room, was in earnest conversation with her lord.