"By G----, the writer shall suffer," replied Lord Tonnerre, furiously, "he shall suffer--he shall pay--" "Who," asked Lady Boileau quietly, "who shall pay?" "The scoundrel--the ---- who has dared to use my name," answered Lord Tonnerre, after several efforts at utterance, which his passion for some moments impeded. "But you must discover _who_ is the _who_," replied Lord Gascoigne, with provoking calmness of manner.--"Junius himself was never hid so successfully as is this writer. You will find it fencing in the dark, Tonnerre, if you meddle with him.--But I see you are angry; now take my advice, when you are so use this antidote--it is an excellent rule I learned from my grandfather--repeat your alphabet; and that being done, your anger will be over too." Lord Tonnerre's face moved convulsively in every muscle, and his whole frame seemed to writhe under the words of Lord Gascoigne. "He boils like a pot," whispered Spencer Newcombe. "Oh, do not vex him, pray," said Lady Baskerville; "he is _only nervous_." "Mad, mad!" rejoined Lord Gascoigne, "pray take heed." With many hems and ha's, Sir William Temple remarked, that for his part he thought it cruel to delight in mischief; that to him it always appeared a most uncharitable practice to wound another's feelings--and somewhat rude too; fit only for the vulgar. "The pleasure or amusement," he continued, "of saying ill-natured things is quite beyond my comprehension--quite inconceivable. I remember, when I used to live a good deal at D---- House, there was a rule established that no one should notice, remark, or seem to observe what was passing;--it was considered so very vulgar to interfere with other people's affairs--all were left at large without account or question--and the consequence was, there never was any thing so enchanting since the world began as that society--so _suave_, so equal, so gentle, so serene;--not a voice ever heard louder than a whisper--every one so well amused, every one so well employed, that _ennui_ was unknown. There never was any thing to compare to that society." "_De graces!_" exclaimed the Comtesse Leinsengen, as Sir William concluded this effusion of his reminiscences, "_de graces!_ do not tell us, Sir Villiam, of _vat_ VAS: to talk of _tings_ gone being delightful is like telling a woman who is _passée_, 'I remember when you were so admired.' De ting to talk of is _to-day_." "Oh, of course," rejoined Sir William, taking the Comtesse's last words _au pied de la lettre_, "of course the society of to-day--the society _here_--is _par excellence_, the most delightful in the world." A nod here passed between Spencer Newcombe and Lord Gascoigne, indicative of Sir William having escaped from his blunders with more adroitness than they had given him credit for; and at the same moment the ladies rose to depart.