“I have moved about a great deal,” said Lothair, “and nothing has come to me but disappointment. I think I shall take to croquet, like that curious gentleman I remember at Brentham.” “Ah! you remember every thing.” “It is not easy to forget any thing at Brentham,” said Lothair. “It is just two years ago. That was a happy time.” “I doubt whether our reassembling will be quite as happy this year,” said Lady St. Aldegonde, in a serious tone. “This engagement of Bertram is an anxious business; I never saw papa before really fret. And there are other things which are not without vexation—at least to mamma.” “I do not think I am a great favorite of your mamma,” said Lothair. “She once used to be very kind to me, but she is so no longer.” “I am sure you mistake her,” said Lady St. Aldegonde, but not in a tone which indicated any confidence in her remark. “Mamma is anxious about my brother, and all that.” “I believe the duchess thinks that I am in some way or other connected with this embarrassment; but I really had nothing to do with it, though I could not refuse my testimony to the charms of the young lady, and my belief she would make Bertram a happy man.” “As for that, you know, Granville saw a great deal more of her, at least at Jerusalem, than you did, and he has said to mamma a great deal more than you have done.” “Yes; but she thinks that, had it not been for me, Bertram would never have known the Phoebus family. She could not conceal that from me, and it has poisoned her mind.” “Oh! do not use such words.” “Yes; but they are true. And your sister is prejudiced against me also.” “That I am sure she is not,” said Lady St. Aldegonde, quickly. “Corisande was always your friend.” “Well, they refused to see me, when we may never meet again for months, perhaps for years,” said Lothair, “perhaps never.” “What shocking things you are saying, my dear lord, to-day! Here, Lord Culloden wants you to return thanks for the bridesmaids. You must put on a merry face.” The dreary day at last arrived, and very quickly, when Lothair was the only person left in town. When there is nobody you know in London, the million that go about are only voiceless phantoms. Solitude in a city is a trance. The motion of the silent beings with whom you have no speech or sympathy, only makes the dreamlike existence more intense. It is not so in the country; the voices of Nature are abundant, and, from the hum of insects to the fall of the avalanche, something is always talking to you.