that I must forthwith interrupt you, in order to introduce them. Madame
de Stael said, in one of her works, that melancholy was a source of
perfection. Listen now to my author--

"'Une femme nous dit, et nous prouve en effet,
Qu'avant quelques mille ans l'homme sera parfait,
Qu'il devra cet etat a la melancolie.
On sait que la tristesse annonce le genie;
Nous avons deja fait des progres etonnans,
Que de tristes ecrits--que de tristes romans!
Des plus noires horreurs nous sommes idolatres,
Et la melancolie a gagne nos theatres.'"

"What!" cried I, "are you so well acquainted with my favourite book?"

"Your's!" exclaimed Vincent. "Gods, what a sympathy; [La Gastronomie,
Poeme, par J. Berchoux.] it has long been my most familiar
acquaintance; but--
"'Tell us what hath chanced to-day,
That Caesar looks so sad?'"

My eye followed Vincent's to ascertain the meaning of this question, and
rested upon Glanville, who had that moment entered the room. I might have
known that he was expected, by Lady Roseville's abstraction, the
restlessness with which she started at times from her seat, and as
instantly resumed it; and her fond expecting looks towards the door,
every time it shut or opened, which denoted so strongly the absent and
dreaming heart of the woman who loves.

Glanville seemed paler than usual, and perhaps even sadder; but he was