pride, and who, far from being so formidably clever as the world cruelly
gave out, seemed to Lionel rather below par in her understanding; strike
from her talk its kindliness, and the residue was very like twaddle.
After dinner, various members of the Vipont family dropped in,--asked
impromptu by Carr or by Lady Selina, in hasty three-cornered notes, to
take that occasion of renewing their acquaintance with their
distinguished connection. By some accident, amongst those invited there
were but few young single ladies; and, by some other accident, those few
were all plain. Honoria Vipont was unequivocally the belle of the room.
It could not but be observed that Darrell seemed struck with her,--talked
with her more than with any other lady; and when she went to the piano,
and played that great air of Beethoven's, in which music seems to have
got into a knot that only fingers the most artful can unravel, Darrell
remained in his seat aloof and alone, listening no doubt with ravished
attention. But just as the air ended, and Honoria turned round to look
for him, he was gone.

Lionel did not linger long after him. The gay young man went thence to
one of those vast crowds which seemed convened for a practical parody of
Mr. Bentham's famous proposition,--contriving the smallest happiness for
the greatest number.

It was a very good house, belonging to a very great person. Colonel
Morley had procured an invitation for Lionel, and said, "Go; you should
be seen there." Colonel Morley had passed the age of growing into
society: no such cares for the morrow could add a cubit to his
conventional stature. One amongst a group of other young men by the
doorway, Lionel beheld Darrell, who had arrived before him, listening to
a very handsome young lady, with an attention quite as earnest as that
which had gratified the superior mind of the well-educated Honoria,--a