It is noticeable, that the Dilettante loves the society of ladies, and is not averse to encouraging amongst his intimates the belief, which none of them holds though all express it, that he is in reality a terrible fellow and much given to the destruction of domestic happiness. He finds a sense of rest and security in fancying that he is suspected of an intrigue. But it is somewhat remarkable, that the evil tongues which make sad havoc of many unwilling reputations are very slow to gratify the willing Dilettante in this respect. No Dilettante can be considered genuine, unless he expresses a pitying contempt for everything that is characteristically English, and for the unfortunate English who are imbued with the prejudices of their native land. He gives a practical expression to his scorn by quavering in a reedy voice, the feeble _chansonnettes_ of an inferior French composer, and by issuing a volume of poems in which the laws of English Grammar are trampled under foot, and the restrictions of English metre are defied. In his lyrical effusions he breathes the passionate desire of a great soul for Love that is not of the earth. He aspires to the stars, and invokes the memory of dead heroes, his intimates. He sets out to win imperishable glory amidst the embattled ranks of his country's foes. He lashes the cold and cruel heartlessness of the world with a noble scorn. He addresses the skeletons of departed friends with passionate longing. He finds that life and its gaudy pleasures are as dust and ashes in the mouth. Having read these efforts to an admiring circle, he betakes himself with infinite zest to the discussion of aesthetic tittle-tattle over a cup of tea and a toasted bun. "Dear fellow," his friends will say of him at such a moment, "he is so etherial; and his eyes, did you observe that far-away, rapt look in them?" They will then take pleasure in persuading one another without much difficulty, that they are the fine flower of created beings. The Dilettante, moreover, is a constant attendant at the first nights of certain theatres. He figures with equal regularity as a large element in the society gossip of weekly journals. He is a delicate eater and never drinks too much out of the Venetian glasses, which his butler ruthlessly breaks after the manner of domestics. There is amongst the inner circle of the Dilettanti a jargon, both of voice and of gesture, which passes muster as humour, but is unintelligible to the outer world of burly Philistines. They dangle hands rather than shake them, and emphasise their meaning by delicate finger-taps. Their phrases are distinguished by a plaintive cadence which is particularly to be remarked in their pronunciation of the word "dear."