She accepted their friendliness as a matter of course, and not by the
faintest extra quiver of the tremulous stars which glittered in a
circlet above her raven hair did she betray her consciousness of the
cloud that darkened her husband's reputation. Never had she appeared
gayer, or more completely satisfied with herself and the world in which
she lived. She was ready to talk about anything and everything--the
newly-wedded queen, and the fortunate Prince, whose existence among us
had all the charm of novelty--of Lord Melbourne's declining health--and
Sir Robert Peel's sliding scale--mesmerism--the Oxford Tracts--the
latest balloon ascent--the opera--Macready's last production at Drury
lane--Bulwer's new novel--that clever little comic paper, just
struggling into popularity--what do you call the thing--_Punch?_--yes,
_Punch, or the London Charivari_--a much more respectable paper than its
Parisian prototype.
Seated next Lord Denyer, who was an excellent listener, Lady
Maulevrier's vivacity never flagged throughout the dinner, happily not
so long as a modern banquet, albeit more ponderous and not less
expensive.
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