The Duchess was one of those women who are the delight of existence. She
was sprung from a house not inferior to that with which she had blended,
and was gifted with that rare beauty which time ever spares, so that she
seemed now only the elder sister of her own beautiful daughters. She, too,
was distinguished by that perfect good breeding which is the result of
nature and not of education: for it may be found in a cottage, and may be
missed in a palace. 'Tis a genial regard for the feelings of others that
springs from an absence of selfishness. The Duchess, indeed, was in every
sense a fine lady; her manners were refined and full of dignity; but
nothing in the world could have induced her to appear bored when another
was addressing or attempting to amuse her. She was not one of those vulgar
fine ladies who meet you one day with a vacant stare, as if unconscious of
your existence, and address you on another in a tone of impertinent
familiarity. Her temper, perhaps, was somewhat quick, which made this
consideration for the feelings of others still more admirable, for it was
the result of a strict moral discipline acting on a good heart. Although
the best of wives and mothers, she had some charity for her neighbours.
Needing herself no indulgence, she could be indulgent; and would by no
means favour that strait-laced morality that would constrain the innocent
play of the social body. She was accomplished, well read, and had a lively
fancy. Add to this that sunbeam of a happy home, a gay and cheerful spirit
in its mistress, and one might form some faint idea of this gracious
personage.

The eldest son of this house was now on the continent; of his two younger
brothers, one was with his regiment and the other was Coningsby's friend
at Eton, our Henry Sydney. The two eldest daughters had just married, on
the same day, and at the same altar; and the remaining one, Theresa, was
still a child.