of the softest materials—of the gentle smile and the soothing word, yet nothing can exceed its utter hard-heartedness. Its element is vanity, of the coldest, harshest, and most selfish order: it sacrifices all sense of right, all kindly feelings, all pity, for the sake of a transient triumph. Lady Mary knew—for when has woman not known?—her power. She knew that she was wholly beloved by a heart, proud, sensitive, and desponding. She herself had warmed fear into hope—had made passion seem possible to one who felt, keenly felt, how much nature had set him apart. If genius for one moment believed that it could create love, as it could create all else, hers was the fault; she nursed the delusion: it was a worthy tribute to her self-love.
"Truly, her ladyship," said the Duke of Wharton, "parades Parnassus a little too much. Does she suppose nobody is to be flattered but herself? Come, Hervey, let us try a little wholesome neglect." Forthwith they devoted themselves exclusively to Lady Marchmont. Lady Mary's smiles were un-
