ould have been very different.

"I wonder whether you feel yourself to be the same sort of person
here that you are at Humblethwaite," he said.

"Exactly the same."

"To me you seem to be so different."

"In what way?"

"I don't think you are half so nice."

"How very unkind!"

Of course she was flattered. Of all flattery praise is the coarsest
and least efficacious. When you would flatter a man, talk to him
about himself, and criticise him, pulling him to pieces by comparison
of some small present fault with his past conduct;--and the rule
holds the same with a woman. To tell her that she looks well is
feeble work; but complain to her wofully that there is something
wanting at the present moment, something lacking from the usual high
standard, some temporary loss of beauty, and your solicitude will
prevail with her.

"And in what am I not nice? I am sure I'm trying to be as nice as I
know how."

"Down at Humblethwaite you are simply yourself,--Emily Hotspur."

"And what am I here?"

"That formidable thing,--a success. Don't you feel yourself that you
are lifted a little off your legs?"

"Not a bit;--not an inch. Why should I?"

"I fail to make you understand quite what I mean. Don't you feel that
with all these princes and potentates you are forced to be something
else than your natural self? Don't you know that you have to put on a
special manner, and to talk in a special way? Does not the champagne
fly to your head, more or less?"

"Of course, the princes and potentates are not the same as old Mrs.
Crutchley, if you mean that."

"I am not blaming you, you know, only I cannot help being very
anxious; and I found you so perfect at Humblethwaite that I cannot
say that I like any change. You know I am to come to Humblethwaite
again?"

"Of course you are."

"You go down next month, I believe?"

"Papa talks of going to Scarrowby for a few weeks. He always does
every year, and it is so dull. Did you ever see Scarrowby?"

"Never."

"You ought to come there some day. You know one branch of the
Hotspurs did live there for ever so long."

"Is it a good house?"

"Very bad indeed; but there are enormous woods, and the country is
very wild, and everything is at sixes and sevens. However, of course
you would not come, because it is in the middle of your London
season. There would be ever so many things to keep you. You are a man
who, I suppose, never was out of London in June in your life, unless
so