sto. All were delighted; they delivered themselves to
the charms of an unrestrained gaiety. Even Charles Annesley laughed and
romped.

This is the only mode in which public eating is essentially agreeable.
A banqueting-hall is often the scene of exquisite pleasure; but that is
not so much excited by the gratification of a delicate palate as by
the magnificent effect of light and shade; by the beautiful women, the
radiant jewels, the graceful costume, the rainbow glass, the glowing
wines, the glorious plate. For the rest, all is too hot, too crowded,
and too noisy, to catch a flavour; to analyse a combination, to dwell
upon a gust. To eat, _really_ to eat, one must eat alone, with a soft
light, with simple furniture, an easy dress, and a single dish, at a
time. Hours of bliss! Hours of virtue! for what is more virtuous than to
be conscious of the blessings of a bountiful Nature? A good eater must
be a good man; for a good eater must have a good digestion, and a good
digestion depends upon a good conscience.

But to our tale. If we be dull, skip: time will fly, and beauty will
fade, and wit grow dull, and even the season, although it seems, for the
nonce, like the existence of Olympus, will nevertheless steal away. It
is the hour when trade grows dull and tradesmen grow duller; it is the
hour that Howell loveth not and Stultz cannot abide; though the first
may be consoled by the ghosts of his departed millions of _mouchoirs_,
and the second by the vision of coming millions of shooting-jackets. Oh,
why that sigh, my gloomy Mr. Gunter? Oh, why that frown, my gentle Mrs.
Grange?

One by one the great houses shut; shoal by shoal the little people sail
away. Yet beauty lingers still. Still the magnet of a straggling ball
attracts the remaining brilliants; still a lagging dinner, like a
sumpter-mule on a march, is a mark for plunder. The Park, too, is not
yet empty, and perhaps is even more fascinating; like a beauty in a
consumption, who each day gets thinner and more fair. The young Duke
remained to the last; for we linger about our first season, as we
do about our first mistress, rather wearied, yet full of delightful
reminiscences.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

_His Grace Meets an Early Love_

LADY APHRODITE and the Duke of St. James were for the first time parted;
and with an absolute belief on the lady's side, and an avowed conviction
on the gentleman's, that it was impossible to live asunder, they
sep