. Has Miss Temple got a page? Does her page wear a
feather? My page has not got a feather, but he shall have one, because
he was not smothered. Here! woman, who are you? The housemaid. I thought
so. I always know a housemaid. You shall take care of my page. Take him
at once, and give him some milk and water; and, page, be very good, and
never leave this good young woman, unless I send for you. And, woman,
good young woman, perhaps you may find an old feather of Miss Temple's
page. Give it to this good little boy, because he was not smothered.'

CHAPTER IV.

_Containing Some Account of the Viscountess Dowager
Bellair_.

THE Viscountess Dowager Bellair was the last remaining link between the
two centuries. Herself born of a noble family, and distinguished both
for her beauty and her wit, she had reigned for a quarter of a century
the favourite subject of Sir Joshua; had flirted with Lord Carlisle,
and chatted with Dr. Johnson. But the most remarkable quality of her
ladyship's destiny was her preservation. Time, that had rolled on nearly
a century since her birth, had spared alike her physical and mental
powers. She was almost as active in body, and quite as lively in mind,
as when seventy years before she skipped in Marylebone Gardens, or
puzzled the gentlemen of the Tuesday Night Club at Mrs. Cornely's
masquerades. These wonderful seventy years indeed had passed to Lady
Bellair like one of those very masked balls in which she had formerly
sparkled; she had lived in a perpetual crowd of strange and brilliant
characters. All that had been famous for beauty, rank, fashion, wit,
genius, had been gathered round her throne; and at this very hour
a fresh and admiring generation, distinguished for these qualities,
cheerfully acknowledged her supremacy, and paid to her their homage. The
heroes and heroines of her youth, her middle life, even of her old age,
had vanished; brilliant orators, profound statesmen, inspired bards,
ripe scholars, illustrious warriors; beauties whose dazzling charms
had turned the world mad; choice spirits, whose flying words or whose
fanciful manners made every saloon smile or wonder--all had disappeared.
She had witnessed revolutions in every country in the world; she
remembered Brighton a fishing-town, and Manchester a village; she had
shared the pomp of nabobs and the profusion of loan-mongers; she had
stimulated the early ambition of Charles Fox, and had sympathised with
the last