The Marquess laughed, and fell asleep. Some of his associates followed his example, and thought no more of Zorilda till they reached Thornton Abbey; but Cecil and Forbes were not of the number. "Did you hear the servants say who that young lady is whom I saw at Mr. Hartland's?" said his Lordship to his valet when he retired to his bed-chamber. "No, my Lord, I took no notice, except that I recollect somebody said that a Virginia nightingale, which I saw in a cage, belonged to Miss Zoé, or some such name; perhaps she may be the young lady that your Lordship means." "Aye i'faith, she is worthy of a Grecian appellation," muttered the Marquess, as his servant went out of the room. "This fair incognita is certainly an exotic, and the banks of the Ilissus may have given her birth. She would make a noise in London, there is no doubt of that." With this sentence the young Nobleman concluded his meditations; and having desired to be called betimes to go upon a shooting expedition, consigned himself to repose. The morning brought its own pursuits, and Zorilda was either effaced from memory, or so little was elicited respecting her that inquiry ceased, and the party at Thornton Abbey dispersed in all directions. The present age is one of too much refinement for trouble of any kind; and we have long been spared the slavish toil of thinking for ourselves. We talk indeed of _free_-thinkers, and make an unusual stir about liberty of opinion; but that is a _façon de parler_ which satisfies, while in reality we are more completely led than at any former period of the world. "Whatever facilitates weakens." The human mind is strengthened by labour; and now that we have grown too polished to work, we cannot look for strong judgment; consequently individuality is not the character of our time, and we are accustomed to praise or abuse _en masse_. Zorilda with a _title_ would have set the capital on fire, and filled every eye and tongue; but Zorilda, untrumpeted, unknown, was soon forgotten. _Name_ is everything; whether of player or preacher, beauty or book, a fashionable paper or review sounds the key note, and the chorus is universal. Preparations were now advancing at Henbury for Algernon's departure to Oxford; and the desolation of Zoé's heart may be more easily imagined than described. To lose the beloved companion of her life, her more than self, seemed wretchedness enough for mortal lot; but in parting with Mr. Playfair too, she was deprived of the only solace which might have remained in her affliction, namely, that of talking over the subject of it with a true friend. Mr. Hartland was good-natured, and had always been affectionate in his bearing; but there was "no speculation in his eye," no intelligence in his mind. He was a mere recipient, and too dull even to reflect with vividness the thoughts of another. With Mrs. Hartland, Zorilda had ceased to communicate, except on household affairs.