Saville had a very pleasant way of telling a story, particularly if it
related to a friend's death, or some such agreeable incident. "Poor Lady
Erpingham was exceedingly shocked; and well she might be, for I don't
think weeds become her. She came here by slow stages, in order that the
illustrious Dead might chase away the remembrance of the deceased."

Your heart has not improved, Saville."

"Heart! What's that? Oh, a thing servant-maids have, and break for John
the footman. Heart! my dear fellow, you are turned canter, and make use
of words without meaning."

Godolphin was not prepared for a conversation of this order; and Saville,
in a somewhat more serious air, continued:--"Every person, Godolphin,
talks about the world. The world! it conveys different meanings to each,
according to the nature of the circle which makes his world. But we all
agree in one thing,--the worldliness of the world. Now, no man's world is
so void of affection as ours--the polished, the courtly, the great world:
the higher the air, the more pernicious to vegetation. Our very charm,
our very fascination, depends upon a certain mockery; a subtle and fine
ridicule on all persons and all things constitutes the essence of our
conversation. Judge if that tone be friendly to the seriousness of the
affections. Some poor dog among us marries, and household plebeianisms
corrupt the most refined. Custom attaches the creature to his ugly wife
and his squalling children; he grows affectionate, and becomes out of
fashion. But we single men, dear Godolphin, have no one to care for but
ourselves: the deaths that happen, unlike the ties that fall from the
married men, do not interfere with our domestic comforts. We miss no one
to make our tea, or give us our appetite-pills before dinner. Our losses