going forward, and might have wondered at her blindness or indifference.

But, alas! notwithstanding her utmost art, she failed this day in
turning and twisting Sir John Hunter's conversation and character so as
to make them agreeable to Mr. Palmer. This she knew by his retiring at
an early hour at night, as he sometimes did when company was not
agreeable to him. His age gave him this privilege. Mrs. Beaumont
followed, to inquire if he would not wish to _take something_ before he
went to rest.

"By St. George, Madam Beaumont, you are right," said Mr. Palmer, "you
are right, in not liking this baronet. I'm tired of him--sick of
him--can't like him!--sorry for it, since Amelia likes him. But what can
a daughter of Colonel Beaumont find in this man to be pleased with? He
is a baronet, to be sure, but that is all. Tell me, my good madam, what
it is the girl likes in him?"

Mrs. Beaumont could only answer by an equivocal smile, and a shrug, that
seemed to say--there's no accounting for these things.

"But, my dear madam," pursued Mr. Palmer, "the man is neither handsome
nor young: he is old enough for her father, though he gives himself the
airs of a youngster; and his manners are--I can allow for fashionable
manners. But, madam, it is his character I don't like--selfish--cold--
designing--not a generous thought, not a good feeling about him. You are
right, madam, quite right. In all his conversation such meanness, and
even in what he means for wit, such a contempt of what is fair and
honourable! Now that fellow does not believe that such a thing as virtue
or patriotism, honour or friendship, exists. The jackanapes!--and as for
love! why, madam, I'm convinced he is no more in love with the girl than