Lady Mandeville was one of those women for the description of whom the word "fascinating" seems expressly made. She had seen a great deal of society, and she talked of it delightfully; she had that keen sense of ridicule so inseparable from perceptions at once acute and refined; and, like most of those accustomed to every species of amusement, she easily wearied of it, and hence novelty became indispensable; and from this arose much of her fondness for society, and quickness in perceiving every variety of character. A new acquaintance was like a new book—and, as in the case of the book, it must be confessed she often arrived very quickly at the end.
Emily's very reserve—the necessity there was to divine the feelings she herself rarely expressed—made her, of all others, the most secure in retaining the friendship she had inspired. There was always something to imagine about her—and imagination is as useful in keeping affection alive as the eastern monarch's fairy ring was in keeping alive his conscience. Moreover, Emily's very friendlessness gave Lady Mandeville a pleasurable feeling of protection—we like those we can oblige—and she felt as the
