Mark, Versailles, the Alhambra, the Apollo Belvidere,
the Madonna of the Chair, and all the glories of nature and the feats
of art could not warm. So, then, the fine gentleman began to act--to
walk himself out as a person who had seen and could give details about
anything, but was exalted far above admiring anything _(quel grand
homme! rien ne peut lui plaire);_ and on this, while the women were
gazing sweetly on him, and revering his superiority to all great
impressions, and the men envying, rather hating, but secretly admiring
him too, she who had launched him bent on him a look of soft pity, and
abandoned him to admiration.
"Poor Mr. Talboys," thought she, "I fear I have done him an ill turn
by drawing him out;" and she glided to her uncle, who was sitting
apart, and nobody talking to him.
Mr. Talboys, started by Lucy, ambled out his high-pacing _nil
admirantem_ character, and derived a little quiet
self-satisfaction. This was the highest happiness he was capable of;
so he was not ungrateful to Miss Fountain, who had procured it him,
and partly for this, partly because he had been kind to her and lent
her a pony, he shook hands with her somewhat cordially at parting. As
it happened, he was the last guest.
"You have won that, man's heart, Lucy," cried Mr. Fountain, with a
mixture of surprise and pride.
Lucy made no reply. She looked quickly into his face to see if he was
jesting.
"Writing, Lucy--so late?"
"Only a few lines, uncle.
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