acquaintance, who cannot live without the honour, or favour, or pleasure
of seeing Lady Delacour twice a week;--do you think I'm fool enough to
imagine that they would care the hundredth part of a straw if I were this
minute thrown into the Red or the Black Sea?--No, I have not one _real_
friend in the world except Harriot Freke; yet, you see I am the comic
muse, and mean to keep it up--keep it up to the last--on purpose to
provoke those who would give their eyes to be able to pity me;--I humbly
thank them, no pity for Lady Delacour. Follow my example, Belinda; elbow
your way through the crowd: if you stop to be civil and beg pardon, and
'_hope I didn't hurt ye_,' you will be trod under foot. Now you'll meet
those young men continually who took the liberty of laughing at your aunt,
and your cousins, and yourself; they are men of fashion. Show them you've
no feeling, and they'll acknowledge you for a woman of fashion. You'll
marry better than any of your cousins,--Clarence Hervey if you can; and
then it will be your turn to laugh about nets and cages. As to love and
all that--"

The carriage stopped at the Pantheon just as her ladyship came to the
words "love and all that." Her thoughts took a different turn, and during
the remainder of the night she exhibited, in such a manner as to attract
universal admiration, all the ease, and grace, and gaiety, of Euphrosyne.

To Belinda the night appeared long and dull: the commonplace wit of
chimney-sweepers and gipsies, the antics of harlequins, the graces of
flower-girls and Cleopatras, had not power to amuse her; for her thoughts
still recurred to that conversation which had given her so much pain--a
pain which Lady Delacour's raillery had failed to obliterate.

"How happy you are, Lady Delacour," said she, when they got into the
carriage to go home; "how happy you are to have such an amazing flow of