I spoke to her a few words, but she was absent and inattentive; my penetration required no farther proof to convince me that she was not wholly insensible to the attentions of Glanville. Lady--was as civil and silly as the generality of Lady Blanks are: and feeling very much bored, I soon retired to an obscurer corner of the room. Here Glanville joined me. “It is but seldom,” said he, “that I come to these places; to-night my sister persuaded me to venture forth.” “Is she here?” said I. “She is,” answered he; “she has just gone into the refreshment room with my mother, and when she returns, I will introduce you.” While Glanville was yet speaking, three middle-aged ladies, who had been talking together with great vehemence for the last ten minutes, approached us. “Which is he?--which is he?” said two of them, in no inaudible accents. “This,” replied the third; and coming up to Glanville, she addressed him, to my great astonishment, in terms of the most hyperbolical panegyric. “Your work is wonderful! wonderful!” said she. “Oh! quite--quite!” echoed the other two. “I can’t say,” recommenced the Coryphoea, “that I like the moral--at least not quite; no, not quite.” “Not quite,” repeated her coadjutrices. Glanville drew himself up with his most stately air, and after three profound bows, accompanied by a smile of the most unequivocal contempt, he turned on his heel, and sauntered away. “Did your grace ever see such a bear?” said one of the echoes. “Never,” said the duchess, with a mortified air; “but I will have him yet. How handsome he is for an author!” I was descending the stairs in the last state of ennui, when Glanville laid his hand on my shoulder. “Shall I take you home?” said he: “my carriage has just drawn up.” I was too glad to answer in the affirmative. “How long have you been an author?” said I, when we were seated in Glanville’s carriage. “Not many days,” he replied. “I have tried one resource after another--all--all in vain. Oh, God! that for me there could exist such a blessing as fiction! Must I be ever the martyr of one burning, lasting, indelible truth!” Glanville uttered these words with a peculiar wildness and energy of tone: he then paused abruptly for a minute, and continued, with an altered voice--“Never, my dear Pelham, be tempted by any inducement into the pleasing errors of print; from that moment you are public property; and the last monster at Exeter ‘Change has more liberty than you; but here we are at Mivart’s. Addio--I will call on you to-morrow, if my wretched state of health will allow me.” And with these words we parted. CHAPTER XLVII. Ambition is a lottery, where, however uneven the chances, there are some prizes; but in dissipation, every one draws a blank.--Letters of Stephen Montague.