the duties of a host; to hear him talk, Atlas was but an allegory of himself—the weight of two separate worlds, loyalty and hospitality, rested on him; besides, he had the enjoyment of occasional sneers at the folly of women, together with their obstinacy; and also at the error of romantic attachments.
All these hints Hortense and her lover considered as levelled at themselves; to which, however, they were perfectly indifferent, only retaliating by ridiculing his habits, manners, &c., and finding in this said ridicule a perpetual source of conversation, whenever sweetness required sauce piquante. I believe they were rather grateful to him,—a standing subject of laughter is invaluable, especially to the young, who like what they laugh at. As they advance in life, laughter, in common with all things else; grows bitter—it expresses scorn rather than mirth.
Poor Francesca might seem the offering to Fortune made for the rest of the party. Every word of her father's cut her to the heart. The very fact of her childhood and her youth having passed without being the object of that near and deep affection, made her exaggerate its happiness, as we ever exaggerate the unknown. And now that she found herself, and by no fault of her own,
