probably of a Latin race. In all likelihood she was a Roman Catholic.

It was Wednesday evening, and his valet reminded him that he was engaged
to dine with Lord and Lady Montairy.

Lothair sighed. He was so absorbed by his new feelings that he shrunk
from society with a certain degree of aversion. He felt it quite out of
his power to fulfil his engagement. He sent an excuse. It was
Lothair's first excuse. In short, he "threw over" the Montairys, to
whom he was so much attached, whom he so much admired, and whose society
he had hitherto so highly prized.

To "throw over" a host is the most heinous of social crimes. It ought
never to be pardoned. It disjoints a party, often defeats the
combinations which might affect the results of a season, and generally
renders the society incoherent and unsatisfactory. If the outrage could
ever be condoned, it might be in the instance of a young man very
inexperienced, the victim of some unexpected condition of nervous
feelings over which the defaulter has really no control.

It was evening, and the restless Lothair walked forth without a purpose,
and in a direction which he rarely visited. "It is a wonderful place,"
said he, "this London; a nation, not a city; with a population greater
than some kingdoms, and districts as different as if they were under
different governments and spoke different languages. And what do I know
of it? I have been living here six months, and my life has been passed
in a park, two or three squares, and half a dozen streets!"

So he walked on and soon crossed Oxford Street, like the Rhine a natural
boundary, and then got into Portland Place, and then found himself in