entence by
sentence, Vargrave talked himself into his carriage. As it drove by the
drawing-room windows, he saw Caroline standing motionless where he had
left her; he kissed his hand,--her eyes were fixed mournfully on his.
Hard, wayward, and worldly as Caroline Merton was, Vargrave was yet not
worthy of the affection he had inspired; for she could _feel_, and he
could not,--the distinction, perhaps, between the sexes. And there still
stood Caroline Merton, recalling the last tones of that indifferent
voice, till she felt her hand seized, and turned round to see Lord
Doltimore, and smile upon the happy lover, persuaded that he was adored!

BOOK VI.

"I will bring fire to thee--I reek not of the place."
--EURIPIDES: _Andromache_, 214.

CHAPTER I.

... THIS ancient city, How wanton sits she amidst Nature's smiles!

... Various nations meet, As in the sea, yet not confined in space,
But streaming freely through the spacious streets.--YOUNG.

... His teeth he still did grind,
And grimly gnash, threatening revenge in vain.--SPENSER.

"PARIS is a delightful place,--that is allowed by all. It is delightful
to the young, to the gay, to the idle; to the literary lion, who likes
to be petted; to the wiser epicure, who indulges a more justifiable
appetite. It is delightful to ladies, who wish to live at their ease,
and buy beautiful caps; delightful to philanthropists, who wish for
listeners to schemes of colonizing the moon; delightful to the haunters
of balls and ballets, and little theatres and superb _cafes_, where men
with beards of all sizes and shapes scowl at the English, and involve
their intellects in the fascinating game of dominos. For these, and for
many others, Paris is delightful. I say nothing against it. But, for my
own part, I would rather live in a garret in London than in a palace in
the Chaussee d'Antin.--'Chacun a son mauvais gout.'

"I don't like the streets, in which I cannot walk but in the kennel; I
don't like the shops, that contain nothing except what's at the window;
I don't like the houses, like prisons which look upon a courtyard; I
don't like the _beaux jardins_, which grow no plants save a Cupid in
plaster; I don't like the wood fires, which demand as many _petits
soins_ as the women, and which warm no part of one but one's eyelids,
I don't like the language, with its strong phrases about nothing, and
vibrating like a pendulum between 'rapture' and 'desolation;'