know what may be his family: I met him at Talbot's four or five years
ago; he was then a mere boy, but he struck me as being very clever, and
Talbot since told me that he was a nephew of his own."

"Talbot," said Lady Westborough, musingly, "what Talbot?"

"Oh! the Talbot--the ci-devant jeune homme!"

"What, that charming, clever, animated old gentleman, who used to dress
so oddly, and had been so celebrated a beau garcon in his day?"

"Exactly so," said Lord St. George, taking snuff, and delighted to find
he had set his young acquaintance on so honourable a footing.

"I did not know he was still alive," said Lady Westborough, and
then, turning her eyes towards Clarence and her daughter, she added
carelessly, "Mr. Talbot is very rich, is he not?"

"Rich as Croesus," replied Lord St. George, with a sigh.

"And Mr. Linden is his heir, I suppose?"

"In all probability," answered Lord St. George; "though I believe I can
boast a distant relationship to Talbot. However, I could not make him
fully understand it the other day, though I took particular pains to
explain it."

While this conversation was going on between the Marchioness of
Westborough and Lord St. George, a dialogue equally interesting to the
parties concerned, and I hope, equally light, witty, and entertaining to
readers in general, was sustained between Clarence and Lady Flora.

"How long shall you stay in England?" asked the latter, looking down.

"I have not yet been able to decide," replied Clarence, "for it rests
with the ministers, not me. Directly Lord Aspeden obtains another
appointment, I am promised the office of Secretary of Legation; but till
then, I am--

"'A captive in Augusta's towers
To beauty and her train.'"

"Oh!" cried Lady Flora, laughing, "you mean Mrs. Desborough and her
train: see where they sweep! Pray go and render her homage."

"It is rendered," said Linden, in a low voice, "without so long a
pilgrimage, but perhaps despised."

Lady Flora's laugh was hushed; the deepest blushes suffused her cheeks,
and the whole character of that face, before so playful and joyous,
seemed changed, as by a spell, into a grave, subdued, and even timid
look.

Linden resumed, and his voice scarcely rose above a whisper. A whisper!
O delicate and fairy sound! music that speaketh to the heart, as if loth
to break the spell that binds it while it listens! Sigh breathed into
words, and freighting love in tones languid, like homeward be