"The pride too of her step, as light
Along the unconscious earth she went,
Seemed that of one born with a right
To walk some heavenlier element."
/Loves of the Angels./

"Can it be
That these fine impulses, these lofty thoughts
Burning with their own beauty, are but given
To make me the low slave of vanity?"--/Erinna./

"Is she not too fair
Even to think of maiden's sweetest care?
The mouth and brow are contrasts."--/Ibid./

IT was two or three evenings after the date of the last chapter, and
there was what the newspapers call "a select party" in one of the
noblest mansions in London. A young lady, on whom all eyes were bent,
and whose beauty might have served the painter for a model of Semiramis
or Zenobia, more majestic than became her years, and so classically
faultless as to have something cold and statue-like in its haughty
lineaments, was moving through the crowd that murmured applauses as she
passed. This lady was Florence Lascelles, the daughter of Lumley's
great relation, the Earl of Saxingham, and supposed to be the richest
heiress in England. Lord Saxingham himself drew aside his daughter as
she swept along.

"Florence," said he in a whisper, "the Duke of ------ is greatly struck
with you--be civil to him--I am about to present him."