delighted with Lady Everingham, who, instead of requiring to be amused,
amused him; and suggested so many subjects, and glanced at so many topics,
that there never was that cold, awkward pause, so common with sullen
spirits and barren brains. Lady Everingham thoroughly understood the art
of conversation, which, indeed, consists of the exercise of two fine
qualities. You must originate, and you must sympathise; you must possess
at the same time the habit of communicating and the habit of listening.
The union is rather rare, but irresistible.

Lady Everingham was not a celebrated beauty, but she was something
infinitely more delightful, a captivating woman. There were combined, in
her, qualities not commonly met together, great vivacity of mind with
great grace of manner. Her words sparkled and her movements charmed. There
was, indeed, in all she said and did, that congruity that indicates a
complete and harmonious organisation. It was the same just proportion
which characterised her form: a shape slight and undulating with grace;
the most beautifully shaped ear; a small, soft hand; a foot that would
have fitted the glass slipper; and which, by the bye, she lost no
opportunity of displaying; and she was right, for it was a model.

Then there was music. Lady Theresa sang like a seraph: a rich voice, a
grand style. And her sister could support her with grace and sweetness.
And they did not sing too much. The Duke took up a review, and looked at
Rigby's last slashing article. The country seemed ruined, but it appeared
that the Whigs were still worse off than the Tories. The assassins had
committed suicide. This poetical justice is pleasing. Lord Everingham,
lounging in an easy chair, perused with great satisfaction his _Morning
Chronicle_, which contained a cutting reply to Mr. Rigby's article, not
quite so 'slashing' as the Right Honourable scribe's manifesto, but with
some searching mockery, that became the subject and the subject-monger.