of making the first advances, and are, therefore, less liable to have
an odious partner forced upon them; though this sometimes happens, as
I know by woeful experience: but it is seldom they can procure the
very partner they prefer; and when they do, the absurd necessity of
changing every two dances forces them away, and leaves them only the
miserable alternative of taking up with something disagreeable perhaps
in itself, and at all events rendered so by contrast, or of retreating
into some solitary corner, to vent their spleen on the first idle
coxcomb they can find.

_Mr Jenkison._
I hope that is not the motive which brings you to me.

_Mr Escot._
Clearly not. But the most afflicting consideration of all is, that
these malignant and miserable feelings are masked under that uniform
disguise of pretended benevolence, _that fine and delicate irony,
called politeness, which gives so much ease and pliability to the
mutual intercourse of civilised man, and enables him to assume the
appearance of every virtue without the reality of one_.[13.1]

The second set of dances was now terminated, and Mr Escot flew off to
reclaim the hand of the beautiful Cephalis, with whom he figured away
with surprising alacrity, and probably felt at least as happy among
the chandeliers and silk stockings, at which he had just been railing,
as he would have been in an American forest, making one in an Indian
ring, by the light of a blazing fire, even though his hand had been
locked in that of the most beautiful _squaw_ that ever listened to the
roar of Niagara.