o then hurried to their night's rest.

CHAPTER X.

_Sir Lucius Drops the Mask_

THE fete at 'the Pavilion,' such was the title of the Twickenham Villa,
though the subject of universal interest, was anticipated by no one
with more eager anxiety than by Sir Lucius Grafton; for that day, he
determined, should decide the fate of the Duke of St. James. He was
sanguine as to the result, nor without reason. For the last month he
had, by his dark machinery, played desperately upon the feelings of
Lady Aphrodite; and more than once had she despatched rapid notes to her
admirer for counsel and for consolation. The Duke was more skilful in
soothing her griefs than in devising expedients for their removal. He
treated the threatened as a distant evil! and wiped away her tears in a
manner which is almost an encouragement to weep.

At last the eventful morn arrived, and a scorching sun made those exult
to whom the barge and the awning promised a progress equally calm
and cool. Woe to the dusty britzska! woe to the molten furnace of the
crimson cabriolet!

They came, as the stars come out from the heavens, what time the sun
is in his first repose: now a single hero, brilliant as a planet; now a
splendid party, clustering like a constellation. Music is on the
waters and perfume on the land; each moment a barque glides up with its
cymbals, each moment a cavalcade bright with bouquets!

Ah, gathering of brightness! ah, meeting of lustre! why, why are you to
be celebrated by one so obscure and dull as I am? Ye Lady Carolines
and ye Lady Franceses, ye Lady Barbaras and ye Lady Blanches, is it my
fault?

O, graceful Lord Francis, why, why have you left us; why, why have you
exchanged your Ionian lyre for an Irish harp? You were not made for
politics; leave them to clerks. Fly, fly back to pleasure, to frolic,
and fun! Confess, now, that you sometimes do feel a little queer. We say
nothing of the difference between May Fair and Donnybrook.

And thou, too, Luttrell, gayest bard that ever threw off a triplet amid
the clattering of cabs and the chattering of clubs, art thou, too, mute?
Where, where dost thou linger? Is our Druid among the oaks of Ampthill;
or, like a truant Etonian, is he lurking among the beeches of Burnham?
What! has the immortal letter, unlike all other good advice, absolutely
not been thrown away? or is the jade incorrigible? Whichever be the
case, you need not be silent. There is yet enough to do, and ye