she might be, for I don't
think weeds become her. She came here by slow stages, in order that the
illustrious Dead might chase away the remembrance of the deceased."

"Your heart has not improved, Saville."

"Heart! What's that? Oh, a thing servant-maids have, and break for John
the footman. Heart! my dear fellow, you are turned canter, and make use
of words without meaning."

Godolphin was not prepared for a conversation of this order; and
Saville, in a somewhat more serious air, continued:--"Every person,
Godolphin, talks about the world. The world! it conveys different
meanings to each, according to the nature of the circle which makes his
world. But we all agree in one thing,--the worldliness of the world.
Now, no man's world is so void of affection as ours--the polished, the
courtly, the great world: the higher the air, the more pernicious to
vegetation. Our very charm, our very fascination, depends upon a certain
mockery; a subtle and fine ridicule on all persons and all things
constitutes the essence of our conversation. Judge if that tone be
friendly to the seriousness of the affections. Some poor dog among us
marries, and household plebeianisms corrupt the most refined. Custom
attaches the creature to his ugly wife and his squalling children; he
grows affectionate, and becomes out of fashion. But we single men,
dear Godolphin, have no one to care for but ourselves: the deaths that
happen, unlike the ties that fall from the married men, do not interfere
with our domestic comforts. We miss no one to make our tea, or give
us our appetite-pills before dinner. Our losses are not intimate and
household. We shrug our shoulders and are not a whit the worse for
them. Thus, for want of grieving, and caring, and fretting, we are happy
enough to grow--come, I will use an epithet to please you--hard-hearted!
We congeal into philosophy; and are we not then wise in adopting this
life of isolation and indifference?"

Godolphin, wrapt in reflection, scarcely heeded the voluptuary, but
Saville continued: he had grown to that height in loneliness that he
even loved talking to himself.

"Yes, wise! For this world is so filled with the selfish, that he who
is not so labours under a disadvantage. Nor are we the worse for our
apathy. If we jest at a man's misfortune, we do not do it to his face.
Why not out of the ill, which is misfortune, extract good, which is
amusement? Three men in this room are made cheerful by a jest at a