“Oh! so am I. He is certainly a cleverish fellow, but rather too much among the blues; a set, of whom, I would venture to say, Miss Manvers knoweth little about.” “Oh, not the least! Mamma does not visit that way. What are they?” “Oh, very powerful people! though ‘Mamma does not visit that way.’ Their words are Ukases as far as Curzon Street, and very Decretals in the general vicinity of May Fair; but you shall have a further description another time. How those rooks bore! I hate staying with ancient families; you are always cawed to death. If ever you write a novel, Miss Manvers, mind you have a rookery in it. Since Tremaine, and Washington Irving, nothing will go down without.” “By-the-bye, who is the author of Tremaine?” “It is either Mr. Ryder, or Mr. Spencer Percival, or Mr. Dyson, or Miss Dyson, or Mr. Bowles, or the Duke of Buckingham, or Mr. Ward, or a young officer in the Guards, or an old Clergyman in the North of England, or a middle-aged Barrister on the Midland Circuit.” “Mr. Grey, I wish you could get me an autograph of Mr. Washington Irving; I want it for a particular friend.” “Give me a pen and ink; I will write you one immediately.” “Ridiculous!” “There! now you have made me blot Faustus.” At this moment the room-door suddenly opened, and as suddenly shut. “Who was that?” “Mephistopheles, or Mrs. Felix Lorraine; one or the other, perhaps both.” “What!” “What do you think of Mrs. Felix Lorraine, Miss Manvers?” “Oh! I think her a very amusing woman, a very clever woman a very--but--” “But what?” “But I cannot exactly make her out.” “Nor I; she is a dark riddle; and, although I am a very Oedipus, I confess I have not yet unravelled it. Come, there is Washington Irving’s autograph for you; read it; is it not quite in character? Shall I write any more? One of Sir Walter’s, or Mr. Southey’s, or Mr. Milman’s or Mr. Disraeli’s? or shall I sprawl a Byron?” “I really cannot sanction such unprincipled conduct. You may make me one of Sir Walter’s, however.” “Poor Washington!” said Vivian, writing. “I knew him well. He always slept at dinner. One day, as he was dining at Mr. Hallam’s, they took him, when asleep, to Lady Jersey’s: and, to see the Sieur Geoffrey, they say, when he opened his eyes in the illumined saloons, was really quite admirable! quite an Arabian tale!” “How delightful! I should have so liked to have seen him! He seems quite forgotten now in England. How came we to talk of him?” “Forgotten! Oh! he spoilt his elegant talents in writing German and Italian twaddle with all the rawness of a Yankee. He ought never to have left America, at least in literature; there was an uncontested and glorious field for him. He should have been managing director of the Hudson Bay Company, and lived all his life among the beavers.” “I think there is nothing more pleasant than talking over the season, in the country, in August.”