onceive the spell Constance had cast around her, when even
philosophy (and Mandeville of all philosophers) had learned to flatter;
but his flattery was sincerity.

"Alas!" said Constance, sighing, "even if your compliment were
altogether true, you have mentioned nothing that should cause me regret.
Vanity is one source of happiness, but it does not suffice to recompense
us for the absence of all others. In leaving England, I leave the scene
of everlasting weariness. I am the victim of a feeling of sameness, and
I look with hope to the prospect of change."

"Poor thing!" said the old philosopher, gazing mournfully on a creature
who, so resplendent with advantages, yet felt the crumpled rose-leaf
more than the luxury of the couch. "Wherever you go the same polished
society will present to you the same monotony. All courts are alike: men
have change in action; but to women of your rank all scenes are alike.
You must not look without for an object--you must create one within. To
be happy we must render ourselves independent of others."

"Like all philosophers, you advise the impossible," said Constance.

"How so? Have not the generality of your sex their peculiar object? One
has the welfare of her children; another the interest of her husband; a
third makes a passion of economy; a fourth of extravagance; a fifth of
fashion; a sixth of solitude. Your friend yonder is always employed in
nursing her own health: hypochondria supplies her with an object; she is
really happy because she fancies herself ill. Every one you name has an
object in life that drives away ennui, save yourself."

"I have one too," said Constance, smiling, "but it does not fill up all
the spaces of time. The intervals between the acts are longer than the
acts themselves."

"Is your object religion?" asked Mandeville, simply. Constance was
startled: the question was novel. "I fear not," said she, after a
moment's hesitation, and with a downcast face.

"As I thought," returned Mandeville. "Now listen. The reason why you
feel weariness more than those around you, is solely because your mind
is more expansive. Small minds easily find objects: trifles amuse them;
but a high soul covets things beyond its daily reach; trifles occupy its
aim mechanically; the thought still wanders restless. This is the case
with you. Your intellect preys upon itself. You would have been
happier if your rank had been less;" Constance winced--(she thought of
Godolphin); "for