agine London society existing for a week on such
literary pabulum as 'The Vision of Mirza.' We want something stronger
than that. A little scandal about our neighbours, a racy article on
field sports, some sharpish hits at the City, a libel or two upon men
we know, a social article sailing very near the wind, and one of
Addison's papers on cherry-coloured hoods, or breast-knots, patches or
powder, thrown in by the way of padding. Our dear Joseph is too purely
literary for the present age."

"What monsters newspapers have grown," remarked Mrs. Tempest. "It's
almost impossible to get through them."

"Not if you read anything else," answered the captain. "The majority do
not."

"We were talking about the ball just as you came in," said Mrs.
Tempest. "I really think Vixen ought to go."

"I am sure she ought," said the Captain.

Vixen sat looking at the fire and patting Argus. She did not favour the
Captain with so much as a glance; and yet he was a man upon whom the
eyes of women were apt to dwell favourably. He was not essentially
handsome. The most attractive men rarely are. He was tall and thin,
with a waist as small as a woman's, small hands, small feet--a general
delicacy of mould that was accounted thoroughbred. He had a long nose,
a darkly-pale complexion, keen gray eyes under dark brows, dark hair,
cropped close to his small head; thin lips, white teeth, a neat black
moustache, and a strictly military appearance, though he had sold out
of a line regiment three years ago, and was now a gentleman at large,
doing nothing, and living in a gentleman-like manner on a very small
income. He was not in debt, and was altogether respectable. Nothing
could be said against him, unless it were some dark hint of a gambling
transaction at a fast and furious club, some vague whisper about the
mysterious appearance of a king at ecarte--the kind of a rumour which
is apt to pursue a man who, like Bulwer's Dudley Smooth, does not cheat
but always wins.

Despite those vague slanders, which are generally baseless--the mere
expression of society's floating malice, the scum of ill-nature on the
ocean of talk--Captain Winstanley was a universal favourite. He went
everywhere, and was liked wherever he went. He was gifted with that
adaptability and hardiness which is, of all cleverness, most valuable
in polite society. Of him, as of Goldsmith, it might be said that he
touched nothing he did not adorn. True, that the things he touched we