contented. She was no tuft-hunter. She did not care for titles. She
had no visions of a column in the Morning Post. She wanted, kind lady,
only a vent for the exuberance of her social instincts; and being proud,
she rather liked acquaintances who looked up to, instead of looking down
on her. Thus Gloucester Place was invaded by tribes not congenial to its
natural civilised atmosphere. Hengists and Horsas, from remote Anglo-
Saxon districts, crossed the intervening channel, and insulted the
British nationality of that salubrious district. To most of such
immigrators, Mrs. Haughton, of Gloucester Place, was a personage of the
highest distinction. A few others of prouder status in the world, though
they owned to themselves that there was a sad mixture at Mrs. Haughton's
house, still, once seduced there, came again--being persons who, however
independent in fortune or gentle by blood, had but a small "visiting
acquaintance" in town; fresh from economical colonisation on the
Continent or from distant provinces in these three kingdoms. Mrs.
Haughton's rooms were well lighted. There was music for some, whist for
others; tea, ices, cakes, and a crowd for all.

At ten o'clock-the rooms already nearly filled, and Mrs. Haughton, as she
stood at the door, anticipating with joy that happy hour when the
staircase would become inaccessible--the head attendant, sent with the
ices from the neighbouring confectioner, announced in a loud voice: "Mr.
Haughton--Mr. Darrell."

At that latter name a sensation thrilled the assembly--the name so much
in every one's mouth at that period, nor least in the mouths of the great
middle class, on whom--though the polite may call them "a sad mixture,"
cabinets depend--could not fail to be familiar to the ears of Mrs.
Haughton's "visiting acquaintance." The interval between his
announcement and his ascent from the hall to the drawing-room was busily