oningsby.

'Such a rapid decision proves that much antiquarian research is not
necessary,' said Sidonia. 'Your period is modern.'

'Ah!' said Edith, looking at Sidonia, 'he always finds me out. Well, Mr.
Vavasour, you will not be able to crown yourself with a laurel wreath,
for the gentlemen will wear wigs.'

'Louis Quatorze?' said her husband. 'Peel as Louvois.'

'No, Sir Robert would be content with nothing less than _Le
Grand Colbert, rue Richelieu, No. 75, grand magasin de nouveautes
tres-anciennes: prix fixe, avec quelques rabais._'

'A description of Conservatism,' said Coningsby.

The secret was soon revealed: every one had a conjecture and a
commentary: gentlemen in wigs, and ladies powdered, patched, and sacked.
Vavasour pondered somewhat dolefully on the anti-poetic spirit of the
age; Coningsby hailed him as the author of Leonidas.

'And you, I suppose, will figure as one of the "boys" arrayed against
the great Sir Robert?' said Mr. Vavasour, with a countenance of mock
veneration for that eminent personage.

'The "boys" beat him at last,' said Coningsby; and then, with a rapid
precision and a richness of colouring which were peculiar to him, he
threw out a sketch which placed the period before them; and they
began to tear it to tatters, select the incidents, and apportion the
characters.

Two things which are necessary to a perfect dinner are noiseless
attendants, and a precision in serving the various dishes of each
course, so that they may all be placed upon the table at the same
moment. A deficiency in these respects produces that bustle and delay
which distract many an agreeable conversation and spoil many a pleasant
dish. These two excellent characteristics were never wanting at the
dinners of Sidonia. At no house was there less parade. The appearance
of the table changed as if by the waving of a wand, and silently as a
dream. And at this moment, the dessert being arranged, fruits and their
beautiful companions, flowers, reposed in alabaster baskets raised on
silver stands of filigree work.

There was half an hour of merry talk, graceful and gay: a good story,
a _bon-mot_ fresh from the mint, some raillery like summer lightning,
vivid but not scorching.

'And now,' said Edith, as the ladies rose to return to the library,
'and now we leave you to Maynooth.'

'By-the-bye, what do they say to it in your House, Lord Marney?'
inquired Henry Sydney, filling his glass.

'It will go down,' said L