After this there were many discussions upon the same subject, and Cecil found that it was not at all easy to get away from Pevenshall, especially as she received a letter from Mr. O'Boyneville begging her to stay as long as she liked with her friends, and promising to run down for a day or two and escort her back to town if she stayed until the beginning of February. So there was nothing for her to do but to stay; and, after all, what substantial reason was there for her hurried departure? What was it to her if Hector Gordon came to Chiverley with his regiment? Was his coming to be a reason for her running away from the county? It was just possible that the officers of the coming regiment might be visitors at Pevenshall, as the officers of the departing regiment had been; but what did it matter to Lady Cecil O'Boyneville where or when she met her old acquaintance of the little Hampshire watering-place? Such was the tenor of Cecil's thoughts when she thought at all of Major Gordon; but after once having resolved to remain at Pevenshall until the natural termination of her visit, she tried to banish all thought of Hector and his possible coming from her mind. She abandoned herself to the frivolities of Mrs. Lobyer's circle, and found those frivolities very pleasant in their way. If it was a useless life--and in a manner sinful by reason of its utter uselessness--it was at least very agreeable while the freshness of youth lasted; and Cecil had seen in the person of her aunt, that such frivolities may be tolerably agreeable to age. But in spite of all the brightness and gaiety of Mrs. Lobyer's life, Cecil found herself pitying her friend rather than envying her. "Surely the day must come when she will be tired of it all," thought the barrister's wife, when Flo had been delighting every body by her vivacity. "She has too many pleasures, and too much splendour and luxury. She seems to me like a feminine Xerxes, and sooner or later she must grow tired of every mortal enjoyment, and cry out wearily for some new pleasure. How tired Cleopatra must have been of every thing upon earth when she drank that melted pearl!--surely only a little less tired than when she made an end of her life with the asp. And Solomon--what unutterable weariness there is in every line of that wonderful book in which he laments the emptiness and barrenness of his life! I cannot help thinking of these things when I see Flo hurrying from one amusement to another; from a hunting breakfast at home to a morning concert at Chiverley; and then for an hour's shopping in which she spends a small fortune upon things she doesn't want; and then home to meet fresh visitors at dinner; and then charades, or _tableaux vivants_, or a carpet-dance. She must grow tired of all this at last; but before that time this perpetual excitement will have become a habit, and society will be necessary to her, as it is to my aunt. I remember that line of Pope's: