you to my sister? I had no opportunity
then, for we left the house before she returned from the refreshment
room. May I do so now?"

I need not say what was my answer. I followed Glanville into the next
room; and to my inexpressible astonishment and delight, discovered in
his sister the beautiful, the never-forgotten stranger I had seen at
Cheltenham.

For once in my life I was embarrassed--my bow would have shamed a major
in the line, and my stuttered and irrelevant address, an alderman in the
presence of His Majesty. However, a few moments sufficed to recover me,
and I strained every nerve to be as agreeable and seduisant as possible.

After I had conversed with Miss Glanville for some time, Lady Roseville
joined us. Stately and Juno-like as was that charming personage in
general, she relaxed into a softness of manner to Miss Glanville, that
quite won my heart. She drew her to a part of the room, where a
very animated and chiefly literary conversation was going on--and I,
resolving to make the best of my time, followed them, and once more
found myself seated beside Miss Glanville. Lady Roseville was on the
other side of my beautiful companion; and I observed that, whenever she
took her eyes from Miss Glanville, they always rested upon her brother,
who, in the midst of the disputation and the disputants, sat silent,
gloomy, and absorbed.

The conversation turned upon Scott's novels; thence on novels in
general; and finally on the particular one of Anastasius.

"It is a thousand pities" said Vincent, "that the scene of that novel is
so far removed from us. Could the humour, the persons, the knowledge
of character, and of the world, come home to us, in a national, not
an exotic garb, it would be a more popular, as it is certainly a more
gifted work, than even the exquisite novel of Gil Blas. But it is a
great misfortune for Hope that--

"'To learning he narrowed his mind, And gave up to the East what was
meant for mankind.'

"One often loses, in admiration at the knowledge of peculiar costume,
the deference one would have paid to the masterly grasp of universal
character."

"It must require," said Lady Roseville, "an extraordinary combination of
mental powers to produce a perfect novel."

"One so extraordinary," answered Vincent, "that, though we have one
perfect epic poem, and several which pretend to perfection, we have not
one perfect novel in the world. Gil Blas approaches more to perfection
than any othe