We had been about a week in London, when an old acquaintance of Madame Bathurst's, who had just returned from Italy, where she had resided for two years, called upon her. Her name was Lady R--: she was the widow of a baronet, not in very opulent circumstances, although with a sufficiency to hire, if not keep, a carriage. She was, moreover, an authoress, having written two or three novels, not very good I was told, but still, emanating from the pen of a lady, they were well paid. She was very eccentric, and rather amusing. When a woman says everything that comes into her head, out of a great deal of chaff there will drop some few grains of wheat; and so sometimes, more by accident than otherwise, she said what is called a good thing. Now, a good thing is repeated, while all the nonsense is forgotten; and Lady R--was considered a wit as well as an authoress. She was a tall woman; I should think very near, if not past, fifty years of age, with the remains of beauty in her countenance: apparently, she was strong and healthy, as she walked with a spring, and was lively and quick in all her motions. "Cara mia," exclaimed she, as she was announced, running up to Madame Bathurst, "and how have you been all this while--my biennial absence in the land of poetry--in which I have laid up such stores of beauteous images and ideas in my mind, that I shall make them last me during my life. Have you read my last? It's surprising, every one says, and proves the effect of climate on composition--quite new--an Italian story of thrilling interest. And you have something new here, I perceive," continued she, turning to me; "not only new, but beautiful--introduce me: I am an enthusiast in the sublime and beautiful. Is she any relation? No relation!--Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf!--what a pretty name for a novel. I should like to borrow it, and paint the original from nature. Will you sit for your likeness?"