to the story of a Portuguese lady, of a marvellous beauty, and who was
deeply enamoured of the Chevalier Miguel de Rasadio, and engaged to be
married to him: but, alas for her! in the insolence of her happiness she
wantonly made an enemy in the person of a most unoffending lady, and she
repented it. While sketching the admirable Chevalier, the Countess drew a
telling portrait of Mr. George Uplift, and gratified her humour and her
wrath at once by strong truth to nature in the description and animated
encomiums on the individual. The Portuguese lady, too, a little resembled
Miss Carrington, in spite of her marvellous beauty. And it was odd that
Miss Carrington should give a sudden start and a horrified glance at the
Countess just when the Countess was pathetically relating the proceeding
taken by the revengeful lady on the beautiful betrothed of the Chevalier
Miguel de Rasadio: which proceeding was nothing other than to bring to
the Chevalier's knowledge that his beauty had a defect concealed by her
apparel, and that the specks in his fruit were not one, or two, but, Oh!
And the dreadful sequel to the story the Countess could not tell:
preferring ingeniously to throw a tragic veil over it. Miss Carrington
went early to bed that night.

The courage that mounteth with occasion was eminently the attribute of
the Countess de Saldar. After that dreadful dinner she (since the
weaknesses of great generals should not be altogether ignored), did pray
for flight and total obscurity, but Caroline could not be left in her
hysteric state, and now that she really perceived that Evan was
progressing and on the point of sealing his chance, the devoted lady
resolved to hold her ground. Besides, there was the pic-nic. The Countess
had one dress she had not yet appeared in, and it was for the picnic she
kept it. That small motives are at the bottom of many illustrious actions
is a modern discovery; but I shall not adopt the modern principle of
magnifying the small motive till it overshadows my noble heroine. I
remember that the small motive is only to be seen by being borne into the
range of my vision by a powerful microscope; and if I do more than
see--if I carry on my reflections by the aid of the glass, I arrive at
conclusions that must be false. Men who dwarf human nature do this. The
gods are juster. The Countess, though she wished to remain for the
pic-nic, and felt warm in anticipation of the homage to her new dress,
was still a gall