offence:
I was more quiet and subdued, perhaps, than before, because I had become
more reflective; but I could not accuse myself of any fault or error,
that I was aware of.

We had been about a week in London, when an old acquaintance of Madame
Bathurst's, who had just returned from Italy, where she had resided for
two years, called upon her. Her name was Lady R--: she was the widow of
a baronet, not in very opulent circumstances, although with a
sufficiency to hire, if not keep, a carriage. She was, moreover, an
authoress, having written two or three novels, not very good I was told,
but still, emanating from the pen of a lady, they were well paid. She
was very eccentric, and rather amusing. When a woman says everything
that comes into her head, out of a great deal of chaff there will drop
some few grains of wheat; and so sometimes, more by accident than
otherwise, she said what is called a good thing. Now, a good thing is
repeated, while all the nonsense is forgotten; and Lady R--was
considered a wit as well as an authoress. She was a tall woman; I
should think very near, if not past, fifty years of age, with the
remains of beauty in her countenance: apparently, she was strong and
healthy, as she walked with a spring, and was lively and quick in all
her motions.

"Cara mia," exclaimed she, as she was announced, running up to Madame
Bathurst, "and how have you been all this while--my biennial absence in
the land of poetry--in which I have laid up such stores of beauteous
images and ideas in my mind, that I shall make them last me during my
life. Have you read my last? It's surprising, every one says, and
proves the effect of climate on composition--quite new--an Italian story
of thrilling interest. And you have something new here, I perceive,"
continued she, turning to me; "not only new, but beautiful--introduce
me: I am an enthusiast in the sublime and beautiful. Is she any
relation? No relation!--Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf!--what a pretty name
for a novel. I should like to borrow it, and paint the original from
nature. Will you sit for your likeness?"

That Lady R--allowed no one to talk but herself was evident. Madame
Bathurst, who knew her well, allowed her to run on; and I, not much
valuing the dose of flattery so unceremoniously bestowed upon me, took
an opportunity, when Lady R--turned round to whisper something to Madame
Bathurst, to make my escape from the room. The following morning,
Madam