“You may think so, sir,” said Mr. Boreall, a sharp-nosed and conceited-looking man, who, having got among a set whom he did not the least understand, was determined to take up Dr. Sly’s quarrel, merely for the sake of conversation. “You, I say, sir, may think it so, but I rather imagine that the ladies and gentlemen lower down can hardly think it a sensible arrangement;” and here Boreall looked as if he had done his duty, in giving a young man a proper reproof. Vivian glanced a look of annihilation. “I had reckoned upon two deaths, sir, when I entered the Hall, and finding, as I do, that the whole business has apparently gone off without any fatal accident, why, I think the circumstances bear me out in my expression.” Mr. Boreall was one of those unfortunate men who always take things to the letter: he consequently looked amazed, and exclaimed, “Two deaths, sir?” “Yes, sir, two deaths; I reckoned, of course, on some corpulent parent being crushed to death in the scuffle, and then I should have had to shoot his son through the head for his filial satisfaction. Dormer Stanhope, I never thanked you for exerting yourself: send me that fricandeau you have just helped yourself to.” Dormer, who was, as Vivian well knew, something of an epicure, looked rather annoyed, but by this time he was accustomed to Vivian Grey, and sent him the portion he had intended for himself. Could epicure do more? “Whom are we among, bright Cynthia?” asked Vivian. “Oh! an odd set,” said the lady, looking dignified; “but you know we can be exclusive.” “Exclusive! pooh! trash! Talk to everybody; it looks as if you were going to stand for the county. Have we any of the millionaires near us?” “The Doctor and Toady are lower down.” “Where is Mrs. Felix Lorraine?” “At the opposite table, with Ernest Clay.” “Oh! there is Alhambra, next to Dormer Stanhope. Lord Alhambra, I am quite rejoiced to see you.” “Ah! Mr. Grey, I am quite rejoiced to see you. How is your father?” “Extremely well; he is at Paris; I heard from him yesterday. Do you ever see the Weimar Literary Gazette, my Lord?” “No; why?” “There is an admirable review of your poem in the last number I have received.” The young nobleman looked agitated. “I think, by the style,” continued Vivian, “that it is by Goëthe. It is really delightful to see the oldest poet in Europe dilating on the brilliancy of a new star on the poetical horizon.” This was uttered with a perfectly grave voice, and now the young nobleman blushed. “Who is _Gewter_?” asked Mr. Boreall, who possessed such a thirst for knowledge that he never allowed an opportunity to escape him of displaying his ignorance. “A celebrated German writer,” lisped the modest Miss Macdonald. “I never heard his name,” persevered the indefatigable Boreall; “how do you spell it?” “GOETHE,” re-lisped modesty. “Oh! _Goty_!” exclaimed the querist. “I know him well: he wrote the Sorrows of Werter.”