t time,
entendez-vous? You must never come here again. If M. le Comte knew it he
never would pardon me. Encore? (He kisses her ladyship's hand again.)

Clive. A good action gains to be repeated. Miss Newcome, does the view
of the courtyard please you? The old trees and the garden are better.
That dear old Faun without a nose! I must have a sketch of him: the
creepers round the base are beautiful.

Miss N. I was looking to see if the carriage had come for me. It is time
that I return home.

Clive. That is my brougham. May I carry you anywhere? I hire him by the
hour: and I will carry you to the end of the world.

Miss N. Where are you going, Madame de Floras?--to show that sketch to
M. le Comte? Dear me! I don't fancy that M. de Florac can care for
such things! I am sure I have seen many as pretty on the quays for
twenty-five sous. I wonder the carriage is not come for me.

Clive. You can take mine without my company, as that seems not to please
you.

Miss N. Your company is sometimes very pleasant--when you please.
Sometimes, as last night, for instance, when you particularly lively.

Clive. Last night, after moving heaven and earth to get an invitation
to Madame de Brie--I say, heaven and earth, that is a French phrase--I
arrive there; I find Miss Newcome engaged for almost every dance,
waltzing with M. de Klingenspohr, galloping with Count de Capri,
galloping and waltzing with the most noble the Marquis of Farintosh.
She will scarce speak to me during the evening; and when I wait till
midnight, her grandmamma whisks her home, and I am left alone for my
pains. Lady Kew is in one of her high moods, and the only words she
condescends to say to me are, "Oh, I thought you had returned to
London," with which she turns her venerable back upon me.

Miss N. A fortnight ago you said you were going to London. You said the
copies you were about here would not take you another week, and that was
three weeks since.

Clive. It were best I had gone.

Miss N. If you think so, I cannot but think so.

Clive. Why do I stay and hover about you, and follow you know--I follow
you? Can I live on a smile vouchsafed twice a week, and no brighter
than you give to all the world? What I do I get, but to hear your
beauty praised, and to see you, night after night, happy and smiling and
triumphant, the partner of other men? Does it add zest to your triumph,
to think that I behold it? I believe you would like a crowd of us to
pursue yo