* The brilliancy of your wit gives so great a lustre to your complexion and your eyes, that, though it seems that wit should only reach the ears, it is altogether certain that yours dazzles the eyes.

AT Lord Latimer’s house were assembled some hundreds of those persons who are rarely found together in London society; for business, politics, and literature draught off the most eminent men, and usually leave to houses that receive the world little better than indolent rank or ostentatious wealth. Even the young men of pleasure turn up their noses at parties now-a-days, and find society a bore. But there are some dozen or two of houses, the owners of which are both apart from and above the fashion, in which a foreigner may see, collected under the same roof, many of the most remarkable men of busy, thoughtful, majestic England. Lord Latimer himself had been a cabinet minister. He retired from public life on pretence of ill-health; but, in reality, because its anxious bustle was not congenial to a gentle and accomplished, but somewhat feeble, mind. With a high reputation and an excellent cook he enjoyed a great popularity, both with his own party and the world in general; and he was the centre of a small, but distinguished circle of acquaintances, who drank Latimer’s wine, and quoted Latimer’s sayings, and liked Latimer much better, because, not being author or minister, he was not in their way.

Lord Latimer received Maltravers with marked courtesy, and even deference, and invited him to join his own whist-table, which was one of the highest compliments his lordship could pay to his intellect. But when his guest refused the proffered honour, the earl turned him over to the countess, as having become the property of the womankind; and was soon immersed in his aspirations for the odd trick.

Whilst Maltravers was conversing with Lady Latimer, he happened to raise his eyes, and saw opposite to him a young lady of such remarkable beauty, that he could scarcely refrain from an admiring exclamation.—“And who,” he asked, recovering himself, “is that lady? It is strange that even I, who go so little into the world, should be compelled to inquire the name of one whose beauty must already have made her celebrated.”

“Oh, Lady Florence Lascelles—she came out last year. She is, indeed, most brilliant, yet more so in mind and accomplishments than face. I must be allowed to introduce you.”

At this offer, a strange shyness, and as it were reluctant distrust, seized Maltravers—a kind of presentiment of danger and evil. He drew back, and would have made some excuse, but Lady Latimer did not heed his embarrassment, and was already by the side of Lady Florence Lascelles. A moment more, and beckoning to Maltravers, the countess presented him to the lady. As he bowed and seated himself beside his new acquaintance, he could not but observe that her cheeks were suffused with the most lively blushes, and that she received him with a confusion not common even in ladies just brought out, and just introduced to “a lion.” He was rather puzzled than flattered by these tokens of an embarrassment, somewhat akin to his own; and the first few sentences of their conversation passed off with a certain awkwardness and reserve. At this moment, to the surprise, perhaps to the relief, of Ernest, they were joined by Lumley Ferrers.

“Ah, Lady Florence, I kiss your hands—I am charmed to find you acquainted with my friend Maltravers.”

“And Mr. Ferrers, what makes him so late to-night?” asked the fair Florence, with a sudden ease, which rather startled Maltravers.

“A dull dinner, voila tout—I have no other excuse.” And Ferrers, sliding into a vacant chair on the other side of Lady Florence, conversed volubly and unceasingly, as if seeking to monopolise her attention.

Ernest had not been so much captivated with the manner of Florence as he had been struck with her beauty, and now, seeing her apparently engaged with another, he rose and quietly moved away. He was soon one of a knot of men who were conversing on the absorbing topics of the day; and as by degrees the exciting subject brought out his natural eloquence and masculine sense, the talkers became listeners, the knot widened into a circle, and he himself was unconsciously the object of general attention and respect.

“And what think you of Mr. Maltravers?” asked Ferrers, carelessly; “does he keep up your expectations?”

Lady Florence had sunk into a reverie, and Ferrers repeated his question.

“He is younger than I imagined him,—and—and—”

“Handsomer, I suppose, you mean.”

“No! calmer and less animated.”

“He seems animated enough now,” said Ferrers; “but your ladylike conversation failed in striking the Promethean spark. ‘Lay that flattering unction to your soul.’”

“Ah, you are right—he must have thought me very—”

“Beautiful, no doubt.”

“Beautiful!—I hate the word, Lumley. I wish I were not handsome—I might then get some credit for my intellect.”

“Humph!” said Ferrers, significantly.

“Oh, you don’t think so, sceptic,” said Florence, shaking her head with a slight laugh, and an altered manner.

“Does it matter what I think,” said Ferrers, with an attempted touch at the sentimental, “when Lord This, and Lord That, and Mr. So-and-so, and Count What-d’ye-call-him, are all making their way to you, to dispossess me of my envied monopoly?”

While Ferrers spoke, several of the scattered loungers grouped around Florence, and the conversation, of which she was the cynosure, became animated and gay. Oh, how brilliant she was, that peerless Florence!—with what petulant and sparkling grace came wit and wisdom, and even genius, from those ruby lips! Even the assured Ferrers felt his subtle intellect as dull and coarse to hers, and shrank with a reluctant apprehension from the arrows of her careless and prodigal repartees. For there was a scorn in the nature of Florence Lascelles which made her wit pain more frequently than it pleased. Educated even to learning—courageous even to a want of feminacy—she delighted to sport with ignorance and pretension, even in the highest places; and the laugh that she excited was like lightning;—no one could divine where next it might fall.

But Florence, though dreaded and unloved, was yet courted, flattered, and the rage. For this there were two reasons: first, she was a coquette, and secondly, she was an heiress.

Thus the talkers in the room were divided into two principal groups, over one of which Maltravers may be said to have presided; over the other, Florence. As the former broke up, Ernest was joined by Cleveland.

“My dear cousin,” said Florence, suddenly, and in a whisper, as she turned to Lumley, “your friend is speaking of me—I see it. Go, I implore you, and let me know what he says!”

“The commission is not flattering,” said Ferrers, almost sullenly.

“Nay, a commission to gratify a woman’s curiosity is ever one of the most flattering embassies with which we can invest an able negotiator.”

“Well, I must do your bidding, though I disown the favour.” Ferrers moved away, and joined Cleveland and Maltravers.

“She is, indeed, beautiful: so perfect a contour I never beheld: she is the only woman I ever saw in whom the aquiline features seem more classical than even the Greek.”

“So, that is your opinion of my fair cousin!” cried Ferrers, “you are caught.”

“I wish he were,” said Cleveland. “Ernest is now old enough to settle, and there is not a more dazzling prize in England—rich, high-born, lovely, and accomplished.”

“And what say you?” asked Lumley, almost impatiently, to Maltravers.

“That I never saw one whom I admire more or could love less,” replied Ernest, as he quitted the rooms.

Ferrers looked after him, and muttered to himself; he then rejoined Florence, who presently rose to depart, and taking Lumley’s arm, said, “Well, I see my father is looking round for me—and so for once I will forestall him. Come, Lumley, let us join him; I know he wants to see you.

“Well?” said Florence, blushing deeply, and almost breathless, as they crossed the now half-empty apartments.

“Well, my cousin?”

“You provoke me—well, then, what said your friend?”

“That you deserved your reputation of beauty, but that you were not his style. Maltravers is in love, you know.”

“In love?”

“Yes, a pretty Frenchwoman! quite romantic—an attachment of some years’ standing.”

Florence turned away her face, and said no more.

“That’s a good fellow, Lumley,” said Lord Saxingham; “Florence is never more welcome to my eyes than at half-past one o’clock A.M., when I associate her with thoughts of my natural rest, and my unfortunate carriage-horses. By the by, I wish you would dine with me next Saturday.”

“Saturday: unfortunately I am engaged to my uncle.”

“Oh! he has behaved handsomely to you?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Templeton pretty well?”

“I fancy so.”

“As ladies wish to be, etc.?” whispered his lordship.

“No, thank Heaven!”

“Well, if the old man could but make you his heir, we might think twice about the title.”

“My dear lord, stop! one favour—write me a line to hint that delicately.”

“No—no letters; letters always get into the papers.”

“But cautiously worded—no danger of publication, on my honour.”

“I’ll think of it. Good night.”