Lady Hamlet Vernon saw she had guessed rightly, and went on to say, sighing as she spoke, "The fact is, that London crowds are not society, that the whole routine of a town life unsatisfactory; and that every circumstance, depending upon a mere pursuit of dissipation, is in itself necessarily an alienation, for the time at least in which we are engaged in it, from all our higher and better enjoyments; but then when one has lost all on whom one depended for comfort, and support, and advice; when one is left alone, a heart-broken thing upon the wide world, misjudged by some, condemned by many, flattered it may be by a few, there is such a stormy ocean, such a desert waste outspread to view, that the heart seeks refuge from the alternative in a multitude of minor trifles, which leave no leisure to feel, still less to reflect; and hurrying on from hour to hour, one passes life away as chance directs." Lady Hamlet Vernon did not know to whom she was speaking, or she would have spoken in a very different tone. She had heard of refinement and morality, she could even admire both; but to religious principle she was a stranger. She paused after having uttered the last words, and, looking in Lord Albert's countenance as she waited for a reply, read there a varying expression, the meaning of which she was at a loss to interpret. At last he spoke, and said with deep earnestness, which failed not to attract her attention, although she was not prepared to understand the import of his words: "Is it possible! then I grieve for you indeed." As he uttered this brief sentence he took up a book, unconscious of what he was doing; and opening the title-page, read "Tremaine." Lady Hamlet Vernon had had recourse to her salts, to her handkerchief; and then, as if repressing her starting tears, she asked, "What do you think of Tremaine?--is it not charming?--Do you know I have thought the hero was like you." "I hope not; I would not be like that man on any account whatever." "No!--and why?" "Why, because I think false refinement the most wretched of human possessions; and all refinement is false which converts enjoyment to pain; nay, I deny that it is refinement; it is only the sophistry of a diseased mind, the excrescence of a beautiful plant; however, the work is a work of power, and its intention pure, though I do not think it free from danger. But tell me, Lady Hamlet Vernon--that is, will you give me leave to ask you a question?" "Certainly." "Did you ever read the third volume of Tremaine attentively through?" She blushed a genuine blush as she replied: "_Not quite_: I am afraid--I thought it heavy." "You do not surprise me; the mind must come tutored to the page to enjoy it as it ought to be enjoyed; and perhaps the fault which might be found is precisely this, that those who would be most likely to read it, are those who would be least likely to benefit by its perusal."