"Psha! well: that may be too—what do you think—?"
"Why I think him very handsome."
"Aye, may be so; I dare say he is—but—"
"But has he avowed his political creed? will he support your favourite measures, or oppose them? I know that is all you wish me to say," replied Lady Hamlet Vernon.
"Why, to be sure, one judges in these days of a man's sense a little by his politics—one learns whether he thinks at all, or follows his interests."
"Oh, you all do that, my dear lord. But come; I will tell you what I think of Lord Albert D'Esterre: I think he is worth winning—and—"
"You will try," said Lord Rainham.
"Fi donc!—now I will tell you no more." And Lady Hamlet Vernon left the foiled diplomatist to lament the failure of his mission, and learn to play his part better for the future.
The evening, or rather the night, was wearing fast away; the Sontag had sung three times, and those who had formed part of Lady Tilney's first soirée choisie were soon to be left in possession only of the recollections—no—not the recollections—the life of the aggregate assembled there would banish such an exercise of mental powers—but in possession of the fact, that they had been of the chosen number; that they had heard the favourite of the hour, not in the too-frequented Opera, but in the privacy of the drawing-room; and that they alone could justly, therefore, weigh her merits, and determine her defects.