Of the long line of lamps which stretched down the street, only the two or three nearest were visible at all, and they looked like dim stars surrounded by a haze. Loud shouts, sometimes mixed with laughter, were occasionally heard from foot-passengers wishing to give notice of their presence. Now two lights, like a pair of eyes, would slowly approach, marking where a carriage moved on its dangerous way; then torches carried past would throw a strange red glare on the fog, scarcely sufficient to show who bore them. “We see something like this in life,” said Ernest to himself. “I think that fog is the common weather of Vanity Fair. Let me see in how many points I can find a resemblance between nature’s mists and those raised by ‘the world.’ Both come not from heaven, but belong to things below; both shut out the pure light of day—make us in danger of falling—in danger of striking against others—hardly able to tell friend from foe. Yet people seem particularly merry in both, as if the very risk were a pleasure. They light those glaring torches, and walk cheerfully on, though they can see neither sun, moon, nor stars. Who would wish to pass all his life in a fog? Yet some choose to live and die amidst the mists of Vanity Fair.” “Reading, moralizing, reflecting,” said Charles, in his own lively manner, as he entered the room. “Who would take you for a young nobleman going to a ball? It will be your last for a long time, I suspect; for Parliament, I hear, is dissolved, and if so, there will be a new election, and back we must fly to Fontonore.” “I am not sorry for it,” replied Ernest. “Nor I,” said Charles, more gravely. “I am afraid that this is a dangerous sort of life for me. You never seem to be in the same peril as myself; I suppose because you are a better pilgrim.” “Oh no!” exclaimed Ernest; “you cannot look into my heart; but every one knows his own temptations best. The truth is, that I cannot enjoy society so much, because I always feel that I am not sufficiently educated, and am in constant fear of exposing myself, and being laughed at. There is no possible merit in this.” “No; if that is all your protection from worldliness, I should call it a very poor one.” “Yes; for if it protects me on the one side, it exposes me to danger on the other. Do you know, Charles, that nothing astonishes me so much in myself, as the cowardice that I find that I possess.” “You manage well, for no one finds it out but yourself.” “I must care for the world, or I should not fear its ridicule. I was always thought rather courageous before I became a peer; I know that I used to speak out truth pretty boldly in our cottage; but there is nothing that I dread so much as the quiet sarcastic smile on well-bred lips. I sometimes fancy,” he added, laughing, “that I should mind it less if there were any chance of its being followed by a blow.” “Well, this much I can say for you, Ernest—I have never yet seen this fear draw you one step from the narrow path.”