terary dinner at the Marquis D'Al--; and
as I knew I should meet Vincent, I felt some pleasure in repairing to my
entertainer's hotel. They were just going to dinner as I entered. A good
many English were of the party. The good natured (in all senses of the
word) Lady--, who always affected to pet me, cried aloud, "Pelham, mon
joli petit mignon, I have not seen you for an age--do give me your arm."

Madame D'Anville was just before me, and, as I looked at her, I saw that
her eyes were full of tears; my heart smote me for my late inattention,
and going up to her, I only nodded to Lady--, and said, in reply to her
invitation, "Non, perfide, it is my turn to be cruel now. Remember your
flirtation with Mr. Howard de Howard."

"Pooh!" said Lady--, taking Lord Vincent's arm, "your jealousy does
indeed rest upon 'a trifle light as air.'"

"Do you forgive me?" whispered I to Madame D'Anville, as I handed her to
the salle a manger. "Does not love forgive every thing?" was her answer.

"At least," thought I, "it never talks in those pretty phrases."

The conversation soon turned upon books. As for me, I never at that time
took a share in those discussions; indeed, I have long laid it down as
a rule, that a man never gains by talking to more than one person at a
time. If you don't shine, you are a fool--if you do, you are a bore.
You must become either ridiculous or unpopular--either hurt your own
self-love by stupidity, or that of others by wit. I therefore sat in
silence, looking exceedingly edified, and now and then muttering "good!"
"true!" Thank heaven, however, the suspension of one faculty only
increases the vivacity of the others; my eyes and ears always watch like
sentinels over the repose of my lips. Careless and indifferent as I seem
to all things, nothing ever escapes me: the minutest erreur in a dish or
a domestic, the most trifling peculiarity in a criticism or a coat, my
glance detects in an instant, and transmits for ever to my recollection.

"You have seen Jouy's 'Hermite de la Chaussee D'Antin?'" said our host
to Lord Vincent.

"I have, and think meanly of it. There is a perpetual aim at something
pointed, which as perpetually merges into something dull. He is like a
bad swimmer, strikes out with great force, makes a confounded splash,
and never gets a yard the further for it. It is a great effort not to
sink. Indeed, Monsieur D'A--, your literature is at a very reduced ebb;
bombastic in the drama--shallow