author who sowed his conversation not with flowers but thorns. Nobody
could accuse him of the flattery generally imputed to his species;
through the course of a long and varied life, he had never once been
known to say a civil thing. He was too much disliked not to be recherche;
whatever is once notorious, even for being disagreeable, is sure to be
courted in England. Opposite to him sat the really clever, and affectedly
pedantic Lord Vincent, one of those persons who have been "promising
young men" all their lives; who are found till four o'clock in the
afternoon in a dressing-gown, with a quarto before them; who go down into
the country for six weeks every session, to cram an impromptu reply; and
who always have a work in the press which is never to be published.

Lady Nelthorpe herself I had frequently seen. She had some reputation for
talent, was exceedingly affected, wrote poetry in albums, ridiculed her
husband, who was a fox hunter, and had a great penchant pour les beaux
arts et les beaux hommes.

There were four or five others of the unknown vulgar, younger brothers,
who were good shots and bad matches; elderly ladies, who lived in Baker-
street, and liked long whist; and young ones, who never took wine, and
said "Sir."

I must, however, among this number, except the beautiful Lady Roseville,
the most fascinating woman, perhaps, of the day. She was evidently the
great person there, and, indeed, among all people who paid due deference
to ton, was always sure to be so every where. I have never seen but one
person more beautiful. Her eyes were of the deepest blue; her complexion
of the most delicate carnation; her hair of the richest auburn: nor could
even Mr. Wormwood detect the smallest fault in the rounded yet slender
symmetry of her figure.