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’ot, my lord,” said Mrs. Jobb, taking his arm.

Before he could get rid of her, supper was served; each lady went down stairs with her partner.

“ You've got to beau me, my lord, as I danced the last set with your lordship.” Mrs. Jobb began to fear she should be left behind; so she hurried him on, still clinging to his

arm.

“ Jobb, my dear,” (to her husband, who was going down with Sappho Fitzcribb, the only person he could secure; and who, tricked out in flowers, shells, and feathers of birds, represented Fable) “ sit near us-Lord Weaklington, Mr. Jobb.

How do you get on, Sappher. I'm as ’ot as July. I'ope you've enjoyed yourself. As for me, I never spent such an evening. What all this must have cost! You know my character, surely? Lavinier.”

“ The lovely young Lavinia,” said Philosophy, hurrying by with the Morning Star on

his arm.

“ Once ad friends," said Mrs. Jobb, continuing the quotation, and offended at such a brief notice of her, with whom, in Great Quebec Street, he was often very glad to take tea and muffins, and jealous of his obsequious gallantry to one whom she pointed out to Lord Weaklington as a “half-starved skinflint of fashion, with a halfpenny 'ead and a farthing tail”-alluding to the diamond star and blonde veil on her forehead, and the somewhat faded blue gossamer of her train.

Lord Weaklington made some efforts to disengage his arm; he burned with indignation to find himself in such a set, and to see himself the butt of the quizzing of all his own cotorie, male and female. Mrs. Jobb only clung the tighter.

“Poor Weaklington!” said a young guardsman, dressed as De Bracy,“ how he's victimised! If he were not such a confounded bore, it would be worth while to rescue him, and to cry aloud—De Bracy à la rescousse!'

“ Don't dream of such a deed,” replied a languid Joan of Arc. " He bores me to death. If you do, I shall never get rid of him. He don't mind how he victimises one; let him be victimised in his turn — now do, dear De Bracy."

“What a love Mr. Grunter looks to-night !” said Mrs. Jobb, to her noble beau.

“ He's quite a marble statute !—how classic, how antick, his ’ead is !- Erodotus ! what a good hidea! The rod comes in so well, you know! Report says—I speak in confidence, my lordship—he was a husher once.”

“ There are moments,” sighed Mrs. Fitzcribb, much elated by the devotion of “ the lion of the day,” and wrought to rhapsody by the huge laurel crown which almost covered his eyebrows, as she moved down stairs, leaning on Grunter's arm, “ fragrant, fairy moments, moments when the spirit revels among 'the stars, which are the poetry of Heaven,' and the flowers, which are the poetry of earth -the triumph of a dear friend, long ambitious of the laurel, and publicly wearing it for the first time, forms a rich cluster of those starry moments-a very Pleiades of the soul! But I am, perhaps, mystic! In my little ode in the * Magazine of Fashion,' to-morrow—an ode, addressed to the Modern Herodotus'- you will see what I mean."

“I listen, like Pericles, to the voice of ..." then recollecting that Aspasia was not a person to whom to compare Mrs. Fitzcribb, he corrected himself —“ I mean, I fancy myself Numa, and you Madam Egeria.”

“Ah, Egeria is for the grot, the forest, the woodland solitude, the silver fount.”

“ To the great mind, madam, as I have remarked in my work, · The Philosophy of History and the History of Philosophy,' cities are crowded solitudes, and the historian and philosopher need an Egeria, and sigh for her in the midst of the hum and the tumult.” This somewhat romantic flight had been suggested by Milton Fitzcribb.

“In future they shall call me Egeria. I will name you Numa. I shall no longer sign my sonnets in. The Magazine of Fashion,' and the · Boudoir of Beauty,' Thyrza' or 'Mirza,' but · Egeria.'

The splendid supper-tables, the brilliantlylighted rooms, the number of attendants, so astonished Mrs. Jobb, that she had almost loosed her hold of Lord Weaklington's arm. A prompt movement of his reminded her in time, and she clung to it, again venting her astonishment and delight in the expressive words

Well, I never!!! Why, money must be like dirt to Mr. Lindsay !-And to think he's only mister, not a lord, not even a sir! Do look at the plate-do look at the chaney, my lord; to say nothing of the glass. Did you ever see such a supper

?”
“I er er erhem hem hem.”

“ We'd better take seats while we can get them, my lord,” said the lady; and Lord Weaklington, he scarce knew how, found himself seated by the “ lovely young Lavinia,” who took soup twice, breaking bread into it each time, put her knife in her mouth, and, in short, did all the things most excruciating to him, besides talking incessantly, and compelling him to answer her.

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