These proceedings did not pass unnoticed by Preston and his elderly friend, who made their own observations upon them, but were prevented from saying anything on the subject to each other by the entrance of a party, which diverted their attention in a different direction. These were no other than Mrs Cheesham and her two accomplished daughters, Miss Emily and Miss Fanny Cheesham. Mrs Cheesham's personal appearance may be passed over very briefly; as no one, so far as is known, ever cared about it but herself. She was vain, vulgar, and affected; fond of finery and display; and the one dominant passion of her life was to insinuate herself and her family into fashionable society, and secure a brilliant match for her daughters. They, again, were a pair of attractive, showy girls; Emily flippant, sparkling, lively; Fanny demure, reserved, and cold. Emily's eyes were dark and lustrous--you saw the best of them at once; and her look, alert and wicked. These corresponded well with a well-rounded figure, a rosy complexion, and full pouting lips, that were "ruddier than the cherry." Fanny was tall and "stately in her going;" pale, but without that look of sickliness which generally accompanies such a complexion; and her eyes, beautiful as they were when brought into play, were generally shrouded by the drooping of her eyelids, like those of one who is accustomed to be frequently self-inwrapt. With Emily you might sport in jest and raillery by the hour; but with Fanny you always felt, as it were, bound to be upon your best behaviour. They passed up the room, distributing nods of recognition, and occasionally stopping to allow Mrs Cheesham to give her invitations to a _soirée musicale_ which she intended to get up that evening. "Your servant, ladies," said old Stukeley, raising his hat, while his friend followed his example. "You are late. I was afraid we were not to have the pleasure of seeing you this morning. Pray, Miss Emily, what new novel or poem was it that kept you awake so late last night that you have lost half this glorious morning? Tell me the author's name, that I may punish the delinquent, by cutting up his book, in the next number of our Review?" "Cut it up, and you will do more than I could; for I found myself nodding over the second page, and I feel the drowsiness about me still." "The opiate--the opiate, Miss Emily? Who was its compounder? He must be a charmer indeed." "Himself and his printer knows. Only some unhappy bard, who dubs us women 'the angels of life,' and misuses us vilely through a dozen cantos of halting verse. The poor man has forgot the story 'Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste Brought death into the world and all our woe, or he would have christened us daughters of Eve by a very different name."