CHAPTER IX.
Very good sort of people.—Common Conversation.
A little innocent flirtation.—Ibid.
"Enamoured of mine own conceit."—Lord Stirling.
A fancy ball! Pray where is the fancy?—Rational Question.
Is it not Rochefoucault who says, "there are many who would never have fallen in love, had they not first heard it talked about?" What he says of love may extend to a great variety of other propensities. How many gastronomes, with mouths never meant but for mutton and mashed potatoes, dilate learnedly on the merits of salmis and sautés—but far less as matter of taste than flavour! How many a red-cheeked and red-jacketed squire exchanges the early hours of the field for the late hours of the House, from that universal ambition called example! And what but that powerful argument, "why, every body gives them," ever made Mrs. Danvers give parties? Without one of the ordinary in-
