that it was an intrigue of the Court and the Tories, and would never
do." Another modestly intimated that he thought there was a decided
reaction. A third announced that England would never submit to be
governed by O'Connell.

As the gloom of evening descended, Mr. Ferrars felt depressed. Though
his life at Hurstley had been pensive and melancholy, he felt now the
charm and the want of that sweet domestic distraction which had often
prevented his mind from over-brooding, and had softened life by sympathy
in little things. Nor was it without emotion that he found himself again
in London, that proud city where once he had himself been so proud. The
streets were lighted, and seemed swarming with an infinite population,
and the coach finally stopped at a great inn in the Strand, where Mr.
Ferrars thought it prudent to secure accommodation for the night. It
was too late to look after the Rodneys, but in deference to the strict
injunction of Mrs. Ferrars, he paid them a visit next morning on his way
to his political chief.

In the days of the great modistes, when an English lady might absolutely
be dressed in London, the most celebrated mantua-maker in that city was
Madame Euphrosyne. She was as fascinating as she was fashionable.
She was so graceful, her manners were so pretty, so natural, and so
insinuating! She took so lively an interest in her clients--her very
heart was in their good looks. She was a great favourite of Mrs.
Ferrars, and that lady of Madame Euphrosyne. She assured Mrs. Ferrars
that she was prouder of dressing Mrs. Ferrars than all the other fine
ladies in London together, and Mrs. Ferrars believed her. Unfortunately,
while in the way of making a large fortune, Madame Euphrosyne, who was
romantic, fell in love with, and married, a very handsome and worthless
husband, whose good looks had obtained for him a position in the
company of Drury Lane Theatre, then a place of refined resort, which his
abilities did not justify. After pillaging and plundering his wife for
many years, he finally involved her in such engagements, that she had
to take refuge in the Bankruptcy Court. Her business was ruined, and her
spirit was broken, and she died shortly after of adversity and chagrin.
Her daughter Sylvia was then eighteen, and had inherited with the grace
of her mother the beauty of her less reputable parent. Her figure
was slight and undulating, and she was always exquisitely dressed. A
brilliant complexion set off