As, after a long dream, we rise to the occupations of life, even so, with
an awakening and more active feeling, I return from characters removed
from the ordinary world--like Volktman[1] and his daughter--to the
brilliant heroine of my narrative.

There is a certain tone about London society which enfeebles the mind
without exciting it; and this state of temperament, more than all others,
engenders satiety. In classes that border upon the highest this effect is
less evident; for in them--there is some object to contend for. Fashion
gives them an inducement. They struggle to emulate the toga of their
superiors. It is an ambition of trifle, it is true; but it is still
ambition. It frets, it irritates, but it keeps them alive. The great are
the true victims of ennui. The more firmly seated their rank, the more
established their position, the more their life stagnates into insipidity.
Constance was at the height of her wishes. No one was so courted, so
adored. One after one, she had humbled and subdued all those who, before
her marriage, had trampled on her pride--or, who after it, had resisted
her pretensions: a look from her had become a triumph, and a smile
conferred a rank on its receiver. But this empire palled upon her: of too
large a mind to be satisfied with petty pleasures and unreal distinctions,
she still felt the Something of life was wanting. She was not blessed or
cursed (as it may be) with children, and she had no companion in her
husband. There might be times in which she regretted her choice, dazzling
as it had proved;--but she complained not of sorrow, but monotony.

Political intrigue could not fill up the vacuum of which Constance daily
complained; and of private intrigue, the then purity of her nature was
incapable. When people have really nothing to do, they genrally fall ill
upon it; and at length, the rich colour grew faint upon Lady Erpingham's