the tax-gatherer; in short, they are a sort of moral excise.
I knew an old lady—the very beau idéal of black satin and blonde, whose dignity was self-respect, and whose courtesy was one half kindness—who used to say on any slight instance of carelessness or extravagance on the part of her grand-daughters, "You don't consider what it requires to make a woman fit to be married." One feels rather inclined to reverse her phrase, and say, "You don't consider what it requires to make a woman fit to be an old maid."
Feeling is very much in the way of philosophy; and Emily was much more employed in thinking how completely the large plumes and larger sleeves of her neighbours concealed her, than in speculations on the dancers. To add to her misfortunes, Mr. Marechal occupied the small vista hitherto allowed to terminate in her profile, with an attitude. Sitting opposite a pier-glass has its disadvantages; however, when things come to the worst, they mend.
"Mr. Marechal," said one of the ladies, "will you fetch my cloak—I feel it cold."
"I was just going," replied the languid lyrist, "to make you the very same request;
