s of Calderon's or
Congreve's comedies in the ingenuities with which they met, wrote, got
invitations together to the same houses, and arranged signals for mute
communication: but there was not the slightest occasion for it all. It
passed the time, however, and went far to persuade them that they really
were in love, and had a mountain of difficulties and dangers to contend
with; it added the "spice to the sauce," and gave them the "relish of
being forbidden." Besides, an open scandal would have been very shocking
to her brilliant ladyship, and there was nothing on earth, perhaps,
of which he would have had a more lively dread than a "scene"; but his
present "friendship" was delightful, and presented no such dangers,
while his fair "friend" was one of the greatest beauties and the
greatest coquettes of her time. Her smile was honor; her fan was a
scepter; her face was perfect; and her heart never troubled herself or
her lovers; if she had a fault, she was a trifle exacting, but that was
not to be wondered at in one so omnipotent, and her chains, after all,
were made of roses.

As she sat in the deep ruddy glow of the library fire, with the light
flickering on her white brow and her violet velvets; as she floated
to the head of her table, with opals shining among her priceless point
laces, and some tropical flower with leaves of glistening gold crowning
her bronze hair; as she glided down in a waltz along the polished floor,
or bent her proud head over ecarte in a musing grace that made her
opponent utterly forget to mark the king or even play his cards at all;
as she talked in the low music of her voice of European imbrogli, and
consols and coupons, for she was a politician and a speculator, or
lapsed into a beautifully tinted study of la femme incomprise, when
time and scene suited, when the stars were very clear above the terraces
without, and the conservatory very solitary, and a touch of Musset or
Owen Meredith chimed in well with the light and shade of the oleanders
and the brown luster of her own eloquent glance--in all these how superb
she was!

And if in truth her bosom only fell with the falling of Shares, and rose
with the rising of Bonds; if her soft shadows were only taken up, like
the purple tinting under her lashes, to embellish her beauty; if in her
heart of hearts she thought Musset a fool, and wondered why "Lucille"
was not written in prose, in her soul far preferring "Le Follet";
why--it did not matt