ought, perhaps, to except the duke, who, I
think, was insensible to all such matters, being
a sportsman and nothing else in the world.
The curiosity of the rest of the company was
excusable. One of the special beauties of the
day, and one of the great matches of the year,
were there side by side, and of course everybody
wanted to know what would come of it.

The beauty of Mary Crawcour was of no
ordinary kind, and there was in it a wonderful
sense of health and vitality. It was scarcely
possible to look at her without feeling inclined
to envy her the extraordinary resources and the
prosperous future which an organism so
complete seemed to promise. What a pity, one
could not help thinking—what a pity it would
be if anything should occur to mar such a career.
And then as you looked from her to her neighbour
the thought immediately followed, "How
mar a career more utterly than by such an
alliance as that?"

Philip, Earl of Sneyd, was not what some
people would call bad-looking, though to me
I must own that his appearance was most
disagreeable. I suppose at the time I am speaking
of he was two or three-and-forty, but he was
one of those light-complexioned men who look
less than their age. His features, too, were
small and regular. What much uglier men I
have seen whom it was pleasanter to look at
than this same Lord Sneyd. There was
something so utterly unmanly and weak about him.
He was so much too soigné in his "get up."
His hair was curled and crimped, and so were
his whiskers. He affected jewellery, and I have
frequently seen him with rings outside his gloves.
He always wore, too, such tightly-strapped
trousers and such thin lacquered boots. I don't
believe he had such a thing as a shooting-jacket
or a pair of highlows in his possession. When
the other men of the party of which he made
one, were out of doors, he was to be found
in the drawing-room playing on the piano, or,
still better, getting some lady to accompany him
while he sang; for I must do him the justice to
say that he had a good tenor voice, and
performed upon it in tune and with considerable
taste.

I looked on then at this game, and I saw,
or thought I saw—what? A used-up man
who had never had anything but a pippin
for a heart—this said pippin having once,
however, had some juice and softness in it,
but now resembling those of Normandy,
which one sees in the grocers' shops—dry,
hard, and sadly contracted and pinched about
the core. I saw that this man had settled
with himself that the young lady beside him
was personally and otherwise suitable to the
position of Countess of Sneyd, and that to be
the proprietor of such a piece of humanity
would be generally agreeable to his inclination,
and creditable to his discernment into the
bargain. I saw, too, a young girl, at the very
commencement of what might be a bright and
glorious existence, about to sacrifice all her
happiness, deliberately selling it for money and
a coronet, and I thought I saw that this was not
done willingly as some girls do such acts, but
because she was forced into it.

Sitting there opposite, and having little to do
in the way of conversation myself, I heard
many scraps of dialogue between Miss Crawcour
and her neighbour. The young lady was
attentive to what Lord Sneyd said, certainly,
but always with a grave attention. She never
smiled, or relaxed.

A great dinner! What a wondrous jumble
of sound, what a queer mixture of words and
thoughts, of observations made aloud and
observations made in secret. What scraps
overheard. What nonsense. If sound and thought
and action could be photographed—caught in
some camera obscura, and retained, what would
be the result of the process? In the case with
which we have now to do—something of this
sort. Quick! The instrument is set, the slide
withdrawn, and the sensitive, and prepared,
plate exposed.

LADY SALTEITH (to me). Did they have the
same house last season?—MYSELF (bawling).
No. They didn't come to town at all.—BUTLER
(over right shoulder). Champagne, sir, or
sparkling 'ock?—MYSELF (to myself). Feverish
last night; (to Butler) Neither.—LADY
SALTEITH (to me). Well, they couldn't have taken
a nicer house.—MYSELF (to myself). It's no use
putting her right; (to Lady S., bawling louder)
No.—LORD SNEYD (to Miss Crawcour). I dislike
travelling. One has to rough it so. I have an
aversion to roughing it.—MISS CRAWCOUR (to
Lord Sneyd, coldly). But surely that is the
great fun of travelling.—MYSELF (to myself),
Effeminate beast that Sneyd is; (to servant,
silently protruding stewed pigeons over left
shoulder) No, thanks.—LORD SNEYD (to Miss
Crawcour). Don't see any fun in having greasy
hot water instead of soup, and beds so damp
that you may take a bath in them. These sort
of things disturb me, put me out, make me—
not angry exactly, I'm never angry—are you?—
MISS CRAWCOUR. Yes, often.—LORD SNEYD.
Really, now, Miss Crawcour.—BUTLER (over
right shoulder). Sherry, sir?—MYSELF. Yes.—
LADY SALTEITH (to neighbour on the other side).
Mumbles so, everybody does, now-a-days. Why
can't they speak out?—LORD SNEYD (to Miss
Crawcour). How does it feel being angry?—MISS
CRAWCOUR. Oh, not very dreadful. I never go
beyond wishing that the person I am angry with
was at the other end of the world.—LORD SNEYD
(calmly). Is that all? Oh, I often go as far
as that myself. I should like at least half of
my friends to be at the other end of the world.—
MYSELF (to myself). How she hates him; (to
servant, protruding curry over left shoulder) No.
—GENERAL ACCOMPANIMENT. Muffled clash,
respectful clatter, buzzing, and subdued laughter.—
MASTER OF FOXHOUNDS (to me). Shall you be
in England for the hunting season?—MYSELF.
Don't intend to hunt next season.—M. F. H.
What's become of that chesnut of yours?—
MYSELF. Sold her.—LADY SALTEITH (to me).
Miss Crawcour is not so pretty as she was last