“Pardon me, I can, and I am. And in earnest you will oblige me, Mr. Beauclerc, if you will spare me your pity: for, all things in this world considered,” said Horace Churchill, drawing himself up, “I do not conceive that I am much an object of pity.” Then, turning upon his heel, he walked away, conscious, however, half an instant afterwards, that he had drawn himself up too high, and that for a moment his temper had spoiled his tone, and betrayed him into a look and manner too boastful, bordering on the ridiculous. He was in haste to repair the error. Not Garrick, in the height of his celebrity and of his susceptibility, was ever more anxious than Horace Churchill to avert the stroke of ridicule--to guard against the dreaded smile. As he walked away, he felt behind his back that those he left were smiling in silence. Lady Cecilia had thrown herself on a sofa, resting, after the labour of _l’éloquence de billet_. He stopped, and, leaning over the back of the sofa on which she reclined, repeated an Italian line in which was the word “_pavoneggiarsi_.” “My dear Lady Cecilia, you, who understand and feel Italian so well, how expressive are some of their words! _Pavoneggiarsi!_--untranslatable. One cannot say well in English, to peacock oneself. To make oneself like unto a peacock is flat; but _pavoneggiarsi_--action, passion, picture, all in one! To plume oneself comes nearest to it; but the word cannot be given, even by equivalents, in English; nor can it be naturalised, because, in fact, we have not the feeling. An Englishman is too proud to boast--too bashful to strut; if ever he _peacocks himself_, it is in a moment of anger, not in display. The language of every country,” continued he, raising his voice, in order to reach Lady Davenant, who just then returned to the room, as he did not wish to waste a philosophical observation on Lady Cecilia,--“the language of every country is, to a certain degree, evidence, record, history of its character and manners.” Then, lowering his voice almost to a whisper, but very distinct, turning while he spoke so as to make sure that Miss Stanley heard--“Your young friend this morning quite captivated me by her nature--nature, the thing that now is most uncommon, a real natural woman; and when in a beauty, how charming! How delicious when one meets with _effusion de coeur_: a young lady, too, who speaks pure English, not a leash of languages at once; and cultivated, too, your friend is, for one does not like ignorance, if one could have knowledge without pretension--so hard to find the golden mean!--and if one could find it, one might not be nearer to----” Lady Cecilia listened for the finishing word, but none came. It all ended in a sigh, to be interpreted as she pleased. A look towards the ottoman, where Beauclerc had now taken his seat beside Miss Stanley, seemed to point the meaning out: but Lady Cecilia knew her man too well to understand him.