the young Virginian. She
had told him they would have a game at cards that night; and purblind
old Colonel Blinkinsop, who fancied the invitation had been addressed to
him, had made the profoundest of bows. "Pooh! pooh!" said the Countess
of England and Hanover, "I don't mean you. I mean the young Firshinian!"
And everybody congratulated the youth on his good fortune. At night, all
the world, in order to show their loyalty, doubtless, thronged round
my Lady Yarmouth; my Lord Bamborough was eager to make her parti at
quadrille. My Lady Blanche Pendragon, that model of virtue; Sir Lancelot
Quintain, that pattern of knighthood and valour; Mr. Dean of Ealing,
that exemplary divine and preacher; numerous gentlemen, noblemen,
generals, colonels, matrons, and spinsters of the highest rank, were
on the watch for a smile from her, or eager to jump up and join her
card-table. Lady Maria waited upon her with meek respect, and Madame
de Bernstein treated the Hanoverian lady with profound gravity and
courtesy.

Harry's bow had been no lower than hospitality required; but, such as it
was, Miss Hester chose to be indignant with it. She scarce spoke a word
to her partner during their dance together; and when he took her to the
supper-room for refreshment she was little more communicative. To
enter that room they had to pass by Madame Walmoden's card-table, who
good-naturedly called out to her host as he was passing, and asked him
if his "breddy liddle bardner liked tanzing?"

"I thank your ladyship, I don't like tanzing, and I don't like cards,"
says Miss Hester, tossing up her head; and, dropping a curtsey like a
"cheese," she strutted away from the Countess's table.

Mr. Warrington was very much offended. Sarcasm from the young to the old
pained him: flippant behaviour towards himself hurt him. Courteous in
his simple way to all persons whom he met, he expected a like politeness
from them. Hetty perfectly well knew what offence she was giving; could
mark the displeasure reddening on her partner's honest face, with a
sidelong glance of her eye; nevertheless she tried to wear her most
ingenuous smile; and, as she came up to the sideboard where the
refreshments were set, artlessly said:

"What a horrid, vulgar old woman that is; don't you think so?"

"What woman?" asked the young man.

"That German woman--my Lady Yarmouth--to whom all the men are bowing and
cringing."

"Her ladyship has been very kind to me," says Harry, grimly