CHAPTER XLVII.

Ambition is a lottery, where, however uneven the chances,
there are some prizes; but in dissipation, every one draws
a blank.
--Letters of Stephen Montague.

The season was not far advanced before I grew heartily tired of what are
nicknamed its gaieties; I shrunk, by rapid degrees, into a very small
orbit, from which I rarely moved. I had already established a certain
reputation for eccentricity, coxcombry, and, to my great astonishment,
also for talent; and my pride was satisfied with finding myself
universally recherche, whilst I indulged my inclinations by rendering
myself universally scarce. I saw much of Vincent, whose varied
acquirements and great talents became more and more perceptible, both as
my own acquaintance with him increased, and as the political events with
which that year was pregnant, called forth their exertion and display. I
went occasionally to Lady Roseville's, and was always treated rather as a
long-known friend, than an ordinary acquaintance; nor did I undervalue
this distinction, for it was part of her pride to render her house not
only as splendid, but as agreeable, as her command over society enabled
her to effect.

At the House of Commons my visits would have been duly paid, but for one
trifling occurrence, upon which, as it is a very sore subject, I shall
dwell as briefly as possible. I had scarcely taken my seat, before I was