hair from
the natural growth--and he has a cruel eye for discerning the artificial
contour of a "made-up" figure. And like a merry satyr dancing in a
legendary forest, he capers and gambols in the vast fields of
Humbug--all forms of it are attacked and ridiculed by his powerful and
pungent pen,--he is a sort of English Heine, gathering in rich and daily
harvests from the never-perishing incessantly-growing crop of fools. And
as he,--in all the wickedness of daring and superior intellect,--
approaches, Lady Winsleigh draws herself up with the conscious air of a
beauty who knows she is nearly perfect,--Mrs. Rush-Marvelle makes a
faint endeavor to settle the lace more modestly over her rebellious
bosom,--Marcia smiles coquettishly, and Mrs. Van Clupp brings her
diamond pendant (value, a thousand guineas) more prominently
forward,--for as she thinks, poor ignorant soul! "wealth always
impresses these literary men more than anything!" In one swift glance
Beau Lovelace observes all these different movements,--and the inner
fountain of his mirth begins to bubble. "What fun those Van Clupps are!"
he thinks. "The old woman's got a diamond plaster on her neck! Horrible
taste! She's anxious to show how much she's worth, I suppose! Mrs.
Marvelle wants a shawl, and Lady Clara a bodice. By Jove! What sights
the women do make of themselves!"

But his face betrays none of these reflections,--its expression is one
of polite gravity, though a sudden sweetness smooths it as he shakes
hands with Lord Winsleigh and Lorimer,--a sweetness that shows how
remarkably handsome Beau can look if he chooses. He rests one hand on
Lorimer's shoulder.

"Why, George, old boy, I thought you were playing the dutiful son at
Nice? Don't tell me you've deserted the dear old lady! Where is she? You
know I've got to finish that argument with her about her beloved Byron."

Lorimer laughs. "Go and finish it when you like, Beau," he answers. "My
mother's all right. She's at home. You know she's always charmed to see
you. She's delighted with that new book of yours."

"Is she? She finds pleasure in trifles then--"

"Oh no, Mr. Lovelace!" interrupts Lady Clara, with a winning glance.
"You must not run yourself down! The book is exquisite! I got it at once
from the library, and read every line of it!"

"I am exceedingly flattered!" says Lovelace, with a grave bow, though
there is a little twinkling mockery in his glance. "When a lady so
bewitching condescend