repartee. The subjects were the light on lots and lively anecdotes of
the day, not free from literature and politics, but both treated as
matters of persiflage, hovered round with a jest and quitted with an
epigram. The two French lady authors, the Count de Passy, the physician,
and the host far outspoke all the other guests. Now and then, however,
the German Count struck in with an ironical remark condensing a great
deal of grave wisdom, and the young author with ruder and more biting
sarcasm. If the sarcasm told, he showed his triumph by a low-pitched
laugh; if it failed, he evinced his displeasure by a contemptuous sneer
or a grim scowl.

Isaura and Graham were not seated near each other, and were for the most
part contented to be listeners.

On adjourning to the salon after dinner, Graham, however, was approaching
the chair in which Isaura had placed herself, when the young author,
forestalling him, dropped into the seat next to her, and began a
conversation in a voice so low that it might have passed for a whisper.
The Englishman drew back and observed them. He soon perceived, with a
pang of jealousy not unmingled with scorn, that the author's talk
appeared to interest Isaura. She listened with evident attention; and
when she spoke in return, though Graham did not hear her words, he could
observe on her expressive countenance an increased gentleness of aspect.

"I hope," said the physician, joining Graham, as most of the other guests
gathered round Savarin, who was in his liveliest vein of anecdote and
wit,--"I hope that the fair Italian will not allow that ink-bottle imp to
persuade her that she has fallen in love with him."

"Do young ladies generally find him so seductive?" asked Graham, with a