“But there are a great many beautiful people here,” said Agnes, “and a great many jewels. I think, sir, it is kind of people to wear them, because all the pleasure is to us who look on.” “You think so? Ah, then beauty itself, I suppose, is pure generosity, and _we_ have all the pleasure of it,” said the amused old gentleman; “that is comfortable doctrine, is it not?” And he looked at Marian, who glanced up blushingly, yet with a certain pleasure. He smiled, yet he looked benignant and fatherly; and this was an extremely agreeable view of the matter, and made it much less embarrassing to acknowledge oneself pretty. Marian felt herself indebted to this kind old man. “And you know no one--not even Mrs Edgerley, I presume?” said the old gentleman. They both interrupted him in haste to correct this, but he only smiled the more, and went on. “Well, I shall be benevolent, and tell you who your neighbours are; but I cannot follow those rapid eyes. Yes, I perceive you have made a good pause for a beginning--that is our pretty hostess’s right honourable papa. Poor Winterbourne! he was sadly clumsy about his business. He is one of those unfortunate men who cannot do a wicked thing without doing it coarsely. You perceive, he is stopping to speak to Lady Theodosia--dear Lady Theodosia, who writes those sweet books! Nature intended she should be merry and vulgar, and art has made her very fine, very sentimental, and full of tears. There is an unfortunate youth wandering alone behind everybody’s back. That is a miserable new poet, whom Mrs Edgerley has deluded hither under the supposition that he is to be the lion of the evening. Poor fellow! he is looking demoniacal, and studying an epigram. Interested in the poet--eh?” “Yes, sir,” said Agnes, with her usual respect; “but we were thinking of ourselves, who were something the same,” she added quickly; for Mr Agar had seen the sudden look which passed between the sisters. “Something the same! then I am to understand that you are a poet?” said the old gentleman, with his unvarying benignity. “No!--what then? A musician? No; an artist? Come, you puzzle me. I shall begin to suppose you have written a novel if you do not explain.” The animated face of Agnes grew blank in a moment; she drew farther back, and blushed painfully. Marian immediately drew herself up and stood upon the defensive. “Is it anything wrong to write a novel?” said Marian. Mr Agar turned upon her with his benignant smile. “It is so, then?” said the old gentleman; “and I have not the least doubt it is an extremely clever novel. But hold! who comes here? Ah, an American! Now we must do our best to talk very brilliantly, for friend Jonathan loves the conversation of distinguished circles. Let me find a seat for you, and do not be angry that I am not an enthusiast in literary matters. We have all our hobbies, and that does not happen to be mine.”