Although the outlines of Lady Tilney's project had been generally settled, yet some of its details were still wanting; and in the interval, she determined on one of those movements in the game, which a crafty adversary sometimes makes to cover an ultimate and deeper end. The Marchioness of Feuillemerte held one of her assemblies, and as it was admissible to appear in such a circle once at least during the season, sans se compromettre, Lady Tilney devoted herself for that evening to the unpalatable task, and engaged Lady Ellersby to meet her.

After casting a glance of inquiry round the room, "My dear," said she, "did you ever in your life see such an heterogeneous multitude (she loved long, hard words) as are assembled here?"

"No, except here"—"Figures," continued Lady Tilney, "renouvellÉs des Grecs—creatures dug out of Herculaneum, only not so elegant; all George the Third's court I believe; and then such a tiresome eternity of royalty, persons who never die, and whom Lady Feuillemerte, and Lady Borrowdale have preserved, together with themselves, in spirits, I believe, to exhibit on their great nights."

"Yes," rejoined Mr. Frank Ombre, who had been permitted to overhear the whisper, and smiling with one of those doubtful expressions which might do for tragic or for comic effect, "we do not want royalty now to keep us in order,—that is quite an obsolete idea. No, we have more enlarged views; we like to turn every thing, sans dessus dessous—don't we Lady Tilney? I am sure I had rather bow to the sceptre of your beauty, than to that of any prince or princess—and you know I never flatter." At that moment a royal personage entered the assembly, when Lady Tilney, under pretence of going away, hurried to the door, saying, "oh, do let me avoid this seccatura."

"Do, Mr. Spencer Newcombe," addressing this privileged friend of her own circle who stood near her, "do call my carriage,"—in the meanwhile placing herself in a situation that made it impossible, without rudeness, for the person whose approach she would have appeared to shun, to pass her by unregarded; a behaviour which, however consistent with Lady Tilney's ill breeding, when she wished to shew dislike, was never known to attach to any of the family who were the objects of her pretended contempt.

Lady Tilney did not, on the present occasion, make her arrangements in vain, and was not only spoken to, but held so long in conversation by the royal person who entered, that she had the satisfaction of hearing her carriage repeatedly announced, till every individual of the assembly must have been aware of the cause of her delay. The dense crowd, however, which now encircled the prince, seemed to oppress Lady Tilney, and affecting to be almost overcome by the pressure,—a pressure which in fact she was herself causing, by obstinately keeping her place, and not allowing the conversation to drop—she was at length gratified by an offer of the arm of royalty to lead her to a seat, on which she sank affectedly, while the prince took that next to her. In one of the pauses of conversation which ensued, Mr. Ombre chanced to find himself exactly at the back of Lady Tilney's chair, and she took an opportunity of whispering to him, "how tiresome!" He shrugged his shoulders, and replied in her ear, "I pity you from the bottom of my heart," (adding aside to Spencer Newcombe), "As I do every one who always succeeds in every thing they wish."

Shortly after, the prince rose to depart to speak to others, while Lady Tilney having made good her right to royal attention, now prepared to express her contumely of every thing regal, and to resume the exercise of her own right to absolute power in her own person.

"Do, Mr. Ombre, sit down and let me have a little real conversation with you, for I am sick of all the fadaises which have just passed." "What a fortunate man," he rejoined, "shall I be, if I have only a little conversation with Lady Tilney!—you know I never flatter,—and besides that distinction, a seat,"—dropping carelessly into the one that was vacant.

But Lady Tilney did not read these words otherwise than in the sense to which they were agreeable to her, and immediately her hitherto repressed eloquence broke forth.

"Have you read the Male Coquet? Do tell me, is it not exquisite? Among all the trash heaped upon people of fashion, this alone is well done. It must be confessed that, in spite of its severity, the whole is well drawn, and though highly coloured, not a daub."

"Yes, I have read it, and I like it; but the world don't."

"No! well I cannot conceive why—perhaps you can tell me.—Not like it! indeed you surprise me! Why, it has already gone through three editions."

"Yes, in the advertisements! but they say the publisher is ruined, nevertheless."

"Well! that is quite extraordinary! I thought all the world approved it."

"The world!—the world, my dear Lady Tilney, is a very ill-natured world, though you have never found it so; but you will some day."

"Oh, do not imagine," cried Lady Tilney, a little displeased at her supposed want of discernment, "do not suppose that I am not quite aware of the world's ill-nature—only—"

"Only you are bound, my dear friend, to suppose it otherwise, since, in its opinion of you, it does indeed make an exception."

"You know I hate flattery, Mr. Ombre."—"Well, well, I have done; but in some cases, what appears flattery, is truth. Besides, I never do flatter."

"Come, come," said Lady Tilney, "never mind! let us return to the Male Coquet, I have not half done talking about it. What do you think of the character of Lord Algernon, is it not delightful, is it not quite perfect?—And for that very reason, quite detestable."

"My dear lady, I never knew but one perfect person in the world whom I could bear; do you guess who I mean?"

"Dear me, are you still here?" said Lady Ellersby, approaching at the moment.

"Yes—you know when those royalties will talk to one, it is impossible to get away."—"Ah, true—and it is so fatiguing."—"Royalties—dose royalties, and you mind dem?" said the Comtesse Leinsengen, who had caught Lady Tilney's words as she passed, leaning on the arm of the Minister for Foreign Affairs.

"My dear Lady Tilney, I wonder to see you here—but you always do de reverse of what you talk, you know—I tell your so."

Lady Tilney was embarrassed, and looked around for an escape from the conversation. She saw the half-formed sentence preparing by Lord Rainham; which, however, she knew must undergo the necessary process of preorganization and arrangement before it was addressed to her. Luckily the Comtesse Leinsengen pressed forward before this could take place, and Lady Tilney, to avoid any more sarcasm on her inconsistency, willingly allowed for once the witty Lord to pass without a word. Mr. Ombre, who was still by her side, and had lost nothing of the scene, gave his word of consolation to Lady Tilney, as he remarked:

"How appropriate to the situation which he fills;—the ready orator, the decided projector of measures and expedients,—how truly great a minister! You know, Lady Tilney, I never flatter. I really think so." Lady Tilney had no wish to continue the subject, and turning to Lady Ellersby, remarked,

"Did you ever see such jewels as the Duchess of Hermanton's? How vulgar to wear them in such quantities; she is like a walking chandelier. But, look, there is Lord Arlingford; he is coming this way—I want to speak to him, and if you move a step or two forward, I shall be able to do so." Lord Arlingford was accordingly arrested on his passage, for he had not intended to converse with Lady Tilney, but was looking on towards a group of persons, in the midst of whom stood the Duchess of Hermanton. "Well, Lord Arlingford, how surprised I am to see you here; are you not bored to death?"

"Why, Lady Tilney," he asked, in return, "should you be surprised to see me in an assembly to which half London is invited?"

"That is precisely the reason," she replied, "I should have thought you never went to these sort of things; they are very tiresome, and I am sure you must be dreadfully annoyed."

Lord Arlingford was not an apt ÉlÈve of Lady Tilney's, although his high rank and connexions had made her sedulously endeavour to direct his education in the world of ton from his very first dÉbut.

"Pardon me, not in the least ennuyÉ. I do not come often enough, or remain long enough in these places, to be sickened by the shew—and as a shew, it is a very splendid one, and I like to see so much beauty as is here to-night gather together."

"Fewer at a time," said Lady Tilney, "would be more agreeable, I should think."

"Perhaps so, for habitual private society; but then that is quite another affair: all things are good in their way, and in their proper season and measure." Lady Tilney was mortified at this very rational distinction of the indocile Lord, but went on to say, "At least you will allow that a circle more choisie is preferable—and one comes to this sort of mob only as a kind of disagreeable duty."—"Duty! that is quite a new idea of duty to me—but I am happy to be taught by so fair an instructress." As he spoke, Lord Arlingford's grave countenance (for it was a countenance of gravity for so young a man) relaxed into something like vivacity; and Lady Tilney, profiting by the momentary gleam of expression, requested him to assist her through the crowd, in order that she might speak to the Duchess of Hermanton.

"You will come, will you not, Lady Ellersby?" turning her head over her shoulder as she spoke.

"No (for at this moment the Duke of Mercington was coming towards her), I have already seen the Duchess." Lady Tilney would then have lingered, glad to have exchanged the arm on which she leant for that of the man of still higher rank; but the Duke only making her the acknowledgment of a familiar nod, offered his arm to Lady Ellersby, and as her friend walked away in a contrary direction, Lady Tilney, mortified, bit her lip, and was obliged to proceed.

The crowd in the door-way soon stopped her progress, and turning to her companion, she observed,

"I wonder how many private couriers Lady Borrowdale keeps in pay, to bring over the newest fashions from Paris. Have you seen her to-night? did you ever behold any thing like the magnificence of her gown?"—"I think," replied Lord Arlingford, "that she is a very fine-looking person, and in her youth must have been perfectly beautiful; but I did not observe her gown." The subject seemed to inspire Lord Arlingford, who broke through the usual briefness of his sentences as he continued, "And her manner, I think, is excellent; there is so much dignity in it, united with so much courtesy; and she is never, I am told, capricious, or forgetful of good-breeding."

"Why, my dear Lord Arlingford, this is an oration—you are quite eloquent! But you cannot really like that old-fashioned maniÈre of curtseying."

"Indeed I am serious; I like it very much: and if I were to point out the person whose manners I should like to see any one I loved adopt, in public at least—for I have not the honour of her intimate acquaintance—it would be Lady Borrowdale's."

"How singular you are! Really, if you entertain such opinions as these, we must expel you from our circle. But if you are determined to be extraordinary, I suppose you will tell me that you cannot bear any thing that is younger or more modern."

"Pardon me; there is Lady Georgina Melcombe, and the Ladies Fitzmaurice, and their cousins, the Ladies Partington, and many others, who look as if they were every thing which the young and lovely ought to be,—unaffected, cheerful, and courteous."

"Oh, this is worse and worse; you are becoming quite insufferable. But do tell me who is that person there, whose appearance is so particular, and who has so extraordinary an air—is he a foreigner?"

"No—that is Lord Albert D'Esterre. Are you not acquainted with him? He is a very charming person,—full of talent, and very handsome, as you see. But I forget—you cannot well recollect him, for he went to the Continent as a boy, and is only lately returned."

"True; I remember—I hear he is likely to distinguish himself—pray present him to me."

The presentation took place; and, after a few words, including an invitation to Lord Albert to her soirÉes, Lady Tilney passed on with Lord Arlingford to where the Duchess of Hermanton was standing.

To have taken pains thus to seek one whom she affected to despise, whose manners and right to fashion she was perpetually calling in question, might argue great inconsistency; but in this instance Lady Tilney's wishes to be well with the Duchess of Hermanton, far from being the result of any thing like the contradiction of a settled principle, were the absolute fruits of it, and were influenced by a feeling of fear—if she would have confessed it—by an apprehension that that really amiable person, possessing the envied superiority of united rank and birth and talent, should assume her proper place in society, and overthrow the false rule to which Lady Tilney herself laid claim. It was therefore conciliation rather; and, as she addressed the Duchess, she put on her sweetest smiles, and laid aside those indescribable airs which were displayed when she intended to scorn or crush; and, while uttering those nothings which form the sum and substance of what is said on such occasions, her manners were almost servile. The simplicity of unquestioned superiority is one of its most sure characteristics; and the Duchess of Hermanton's mode of receiving this homage was unaffected and courteous. But as the two persons had little similarity in their natures, the conference lasted only sufficiently long for Lady Tilney to preserve that degree of familiarity in acquaintance, which she determined should prevent her being a stranger to one too independent and distinguished to be altogether passed over.

Meanwhile, Lord Arlingford having profited by the opportunity to quit Lady Tilney, now joined Lady Georgina Melcombe and some of the persons standing together in another part of the room; and Lady Tilney, thus left alone, had, for a few moments, leisure to behold the splendour of the apartments and of the persons met in them. In her heart she could not but acknowledge that whatever London could boast as being most distinguished was present, and that the good and great predominated; but it was not exclusive—that is, it was an assembly constituted of almost all those whose rank entitled them to be on the list of Lady Feuillemerte's visitors.

It was numerous, therefore, which is the very essence of an assembly; for what is so insipid as public receptions where the members are few, the rooms half filled, and the scene unenlivened by those circumstances which a diversity of ages, characters, and dresses cast around?

Here all met the society which best accorded with their tastes. The politician, the courtier, the man of fashion, found here their associates and their amusement, each in their different sphere, as they retired from the rest to discuss some present topic of public interest, or glided through the throng with that easy politeness which breathed of the atmosphere they inhaled in the presence of their Sovereign, paying the well-timed compliment as they passed, or displaying the refinement of wit and repartee in their short and animated conversations.

Here, too, amidst the younger and fresher forms, beauties of former days still shone in the dignity of their manners, and of that air and carriage which the fashion of their time had rendered a portion of themselves; which lent a grace to their every movement, and might well have afforded a school of manners and propriety of outward bearing for the young who mingled with them—in counteraction of the oblivion and extermination of all manners, which the prevailing system of the soi-disant members of ton would have enforced.

Such, at least, were the external features of an old-fashioned assembly—in its moral character the advantages were no less. Its honest and avowed purpose was the interchange of those courtesies which render life agreeable, and the preservation of those general guards in society which, as checks to profligacy, are more useful than abstract theories of ethics, or codes of moral laws. People, unless lost, sin not so blindly in mixed communities—one individual forms a restraint on the others—children stand in awe of parents, and these, in their turn, acknowledge a wholesome control in the presence of their offspring—the good are a terror to the evil (for an alloy will ever exist); while the one and the other mutually afford examples of imitation, or beacons of danger to be avoided, which every individual may, if there be the will, turn to profit, in the correction of some temper, the curbing of some excess, the chastening of some wish, or the abandonment of some folly.

The more intimate associations in life are not here spoken of; but these in characters of the same description as Lady Feuillemerte's, would doubtless be founded on the same basis, and have the same objects in view; for whether in the cherishing of natural affections, the formation of those friendships which spring up in the domestic circle, the cultivation and exercise of talents which give a charm to existence, or the acquirement of more important attainments, the system which holds out examples, and affords restraint, will ever be best.

The "sociÉtÉ choisie," however, which Lady Tilney desired to form, was, in its nature, the very reverse of what has been described. Its exclusive character was to consist, not in the selection of what was amiable in nobility, or virtuous in talent; it was not to be the circle drawn within a narrower circumference, for a more perfect enjoyment of private friendship, or the cultivation of more intellectual pursuits than the wide range of fashionable life could afford; it was not to be retirement from the busier throng, for the purposes of a more rational and purer existence; but it was to consist of those whose follies in the pursuit of pleasure, and whose weakness in the indulgence of all the empty toys of life, had given them a distinction above their fellows; of those who judged immorality, when burnished by the tinsel of superficial acquirements, as venial error;—of those, in short, who were either senseless or wicked enough to consider life but a bubble, to be blown down the current, according to the dictates of the will, and whose daily existence testified, that they were alike without a thought or a fear for the morrow's eternity. Such were to be its members, and its seclusion from the general eye of the world, its secession from all others but—; its rigid law, that unmarried women were not eligible to its chosen meetings—for what purpose, and to what end were these? If for vanity of distinction, merely, it was weak; if for the purpose of indulging in pursuits and conversation, which would receive a check in a society less selected for the object—it was wicked. In whichever point of view, a society so constituted must be demoralizing, for assuredly it would have the character of being, if it even were not, really vicious—and its example would have a contaminating effect in the corruption of morals, and the overthrow of the barriers of domestic peace.

It cannot be said that these were the reflections of Lady Tilney, as she stood for the few moments alone in the crowd at Lady Feuillemerte's. It would be injustice to her to suppose that they were, or that she contemplated in the formation of a coterie, according to her own peculiar prejudices, any of the evils with which the system was sure to be pregnant. It is thus, however, with all reforms, entered upon for private ends; the individual sees but the accomplishment of his own and his immediate associates' views, in what is to be overturned; and the fatal result accruing to the community, even if clearly distinguished, are at the moment but as dust in the balance of self.

It is more probable that, as Lady Tilney gazed on the mingled group around her, blind to the demerits of her projected revolution of society, and proud of influence, which over a certain portion of the London world she had succeeded in establishing, she became firmer in her purpose; and as her eye fell on one individual after another, whose manners, mode of life, dress, or very name were disagreeable to her, or proved them wanting in the stamp of ideal fashion, the necessity of the measure she contemplated she conceived became more and more imperative. Whatever might have been Lady Tilney's reflections, she was not long suffered to indulge them. In the tide which passed before her appeared Lord Rainham, unattended however, as previously, by the Comtesse Leinsengen: Lady Tilney therefore awaited his address, without any appearance of recurrence to her professed distaste for royalty.

"A marvel, I declare!" were the opening words of a speech already polished, usque ad unguam, before Lord Rainham ventured to give it utterance.—"Behold Lady Tilney without a crowd of worshippers at her feet!—Explain me this phenomenon, and say, have you been cruel to your slaves, and are they gone themselves, or have they forgotten their allegiance? Such things have been, though they ought not to be—and yet methinks you would find it sufficiently dull, if all things were as they ought to be, would you not? tell me the truth, and give me your confidence; I have long wished to have the confidence of a handsome woman, and I promise you indulgentia plenaria."

"No, not for the world!—I hold it to be quite a false maxim to have any confidants: besides I have nothing to confide."

"You are too wise to be so handsome," said Lord Rainham abruptly, "and so good night; for since you will not parley with me, 'tis in vain I linger;" and as he turned away, words of fresh impromptu on some other subject began audibly to escape his lips.

"In your orisons be all my sins remembered," whispered Mr. Ombre as he passed, and again found himself at Lady Tilney's side. "It is high time such bookworms as I should retire into our cells; so, lady sweet, good night.—You know it is not I who speak, but he, who would have been blest, could he have poured all his sweetest lays into that gentle ear." Lady Tilney considered the homage of talent as peculiarly her own, and would gladly have retained the speaker; but gliding with the gentle undulation of some shadowy form towards the door, he escaped the infliction of a penalty, which even the syren smiles which were his reward could hardly at times repay.

It was now growing late—the assembly was breaking up, and Lady Tilney looked anxiously for some cavalier to attend her to her carriage: but this was not a point of easy settlement. In degree he must be either of rank, or a dependent—one who was her equal, or one on whom she might confer distinction by her choice of his services. Neither such requisites, however, were to be found in the group around, and Lady Tilney, whilst feeling yet more and more the necessity of an exclusive circle, where such predicaments would be avoided, was doomed still further mortification in the approach of Colonel Temple, a person whom she hardly ever considered recognizable, and whose offer of assistance, made evidently with sarcastic reference to her being alone, came in a shape particularly offensive to her.

"Will you allow me to have the honour of calling your carriage," he said, addressing her with easy familiarity; "or if you are going to walk through the rooms, allow me to escort you?" (offering his arm).

"No," said Lady Tilney, in a manner that might have awed any one else; "I am going away immediately."

"Well, then, let me call your carriage," he replied, with a tenacity that nothing could evade—whilst Lady Tilney continued to move on, terrified lest she should be seen so attended.

This apparent anxiety to avoid him, was, however, with Colonel Temple, the surest incitement to a continuance of his proffered attentions. It might not have been exactly consistent with the general, high breeding and politeness which distinguished Lady Feuillemerte's assemblies, for any one to have acted under this influence perhaps; but Col. Temple was a character known to all the world as such, and privileged to do things which no one else did. He was a man, too, of family, and felt his situation in society, in the midst of all his eccentricities. His want of refinement had its compensation in an honesty of disposition quite at variance with the measured forms of fashionable exclusiveness, but which made him generally beloved; while his shrewd sense, mixed with a certain vein of sarcastic humour, always penetrated the littleness of vanity, and often inflicted on it its severest wounds.

Lady Tilney, from repeated slights, was a darling object of his attacks, and could she without compromise have purchased immunity from their never-failing and successful arrogance, by an honourable truce, she would gladly have done so. But Col. Temple was too arrogant, too presumptuous, to be checked by any defiance of ultra fashion—too independent, too high-spirited, to suffer a cold and haughty recognition, in place of the politeness and courtesy due to him as a gentleman, and thus this warfare had become interminable.

Enjoying his triumphs in the way in question, he followed Lady Tilney from room to room—even to the steps of her carriage, assuring her as they proceeded, that her apprehensions of being detected in his society were compliments to him beyond price; he was aware that, to be of importance, the next thing to being liked, was being feared—and bidding her be sure to send him a card for her next choice soirÉe, he handed his victim into her carriage, under a thousand half-pronounced inuendos upon his insufferable vulgarity, and the awful anathema of future exclusion.