philosophy (and Mandeville of all philosophers) had learned to flatter;
but his flattery was sincerity.

"Alas!" said Constance, sighing, "even if your compliment were altogether
true, you have mentioned nothing that should cause me regret. Vanity is
one source of happiness, but it does not suffice to recompense us for the
absence of all others. In leaving England, I leave the scene of
everlasting weariness. I am the victim of a feeling of sameness, and I
look with hope to the prospect of change."

"Poor thing!" said the old philosopher, gazing mournfully on a creature
who, so resplendent with advantages, yet felt the crumpled rose-leaf more
than the luxury of the couch. "Wherever you go the same polished society
will present to you the same monotony. All courts are alike: men have
change in action; but to women of your rank all scenes are alike. You
must not look without for an object--you must create one within. To be
happy we must render ourselves independent of others."

"Like all philosophers, you advise the impossible," said Constance.

"How so? Have not the generality of your sex their peculiar object? One
has the welfare of her children; another the interest of her husband; a
third makes a passion of economy; a fourth of extravagance; a fifth of
fashion; a sixth of solitude. Your friend yonder is always employed in
nursing her own health: hypochondria supplies her with an object; she is
really happy because she fancies herself ill. Every one you name has an
object in life that drives away ennui, save yourself."

"I have one too," said Constance, smiling, "but it does not fill up all
the spaces of time. The intervals between the acts are longer than the