or, to conclude with Carew's picturesque belief,
"Ask me no more where June bestows,
When spring is gone, the fading rose;
For in her beauty's orient deep
Those flowers, as in their causes sleep."
These days of romantic gallantry had somewhat waned: but enough of the high-toned and classic remained to make the charming things then said very charming indeed; and never were they poured in a fairer ear than in Lady Marchmont's; nor, it must be confessed, in one more ready to receive them.
Night came, with that increase of gaiety which has always been night's peculiar privilege—perhaps on the principle of contrast. Monday, it was the ridotto; Tuesday, the opera; Wednesday, Ranelagh; Thursday, the play; Friday, a ball; Saturday, a rout, or else a little of all these blended together. What a sensation was produced the first night of her appearance in the stage box! One line in the play was,
"I look upon her face, and think of heaven;"
