"Miss White," said Lady Roseville, "has not only the best command of
language herself, but she gives language to other people. Dinner parties,
usually so stupid, are, at her house, quite delightful. I have actually
seen English people look happy, and one or two even almost natural."

"Ah!" said Wormwood, "that is indeed rare. With us every thing is
assumption. We are still exactly like the English suitor to Portia, in
the Merchant of Venice. We take our doublet from one country, our hose
from another, and our behaviour every where. Fashion with us is like the
man in one of Le Sage's novels, who was constantly changing his servants,
and yet had but one suit of livery, which every new comer, whether he was
tall or short, fat or thin, was obliged to wear. We adopt manners,
however incongruous and ill suited to our nature, and thus we always seem
awkward and constrained. But Lydia White's soirees are indeed agreeable.
I remember the last time I dined there we were six in number, and though
we were not blessed with the company of Lord Vincent, the conversation
was without 'let or flaw.' Every one, even S----, said good things."

"Indeed!" cried Lord Vincent; "and pray, Mr. Wormwood, what did you say!"

"Why," answered the poet, glancing with a significant sneer over
Vincent's somewhat inelegant person, "I thought of your lordship's
figure, and said--grace!"

"Hem--hem!--'Gratia malorum tam infida est quam ipsi,' as Pliny says,"
muttered Lord Vincent, getting up hastily, and buttoning his coat.

I took the opportunity of the ensuing pause to approach Lady Roseville,
and whisper my adieus. She was kind and even warm to me in returning