the nineteenth century, when most of us, having decided that there is no
future, take it upon ourselves to despise the present.

Paul soon discovered that he was found out--at no time a pleasant
condition of things, except, indeed, when callers are about. That which
Eton and Cambridge had failed to lay their fingers upon, every
match-making mother had found out for herself in a week. That the
discovery had been carefully kept in each maternal breast, it is
needless to relate. Ces dames are not confidential upon such matters
between themselves. When they have scented their game they stalk him,
and if possible bag him in a feline solitude which has no fears for
stout, ambitious hearts. The fear is that some other prowling mother of
an eligible maiden may hit upon the same scent.

Paul was invited to quiet dinners and a little music, to quiet dinners
without the music, to a very little music and no dinner whatever. The
number of ladies who had a seat in a box thrown upon their hands at the
last minute--a seat next to Angelina in her new pink, or Blanche in her
sweet poult de soie--the number of these ladies one can only say was
singular, because politeness forbids one to suggest that it was
suspicious. Soft cheeks became rosy at his approach--partly, perhaps,
because soft and dainty toes in satin slippers were trodden upon with
maternal emphasis at that moment. Soft eyes looked love into eyes that,
alas! only returned preoccupation. There was always room on an
engagement card for Paul's name. There was always space in the smallest
drawing-room for Paul's person, vast though the latter was. There
was--fond mothers conveyed it to him subtly after supper and
champagne--an aching void in more than one maiden heart which was his
exact fit.