Montreuil was not yet returned. I had passed the age of eighteen, when
the whole house, which, as it was summer, when none but cats and
physicians were supposed gifted by Providence with the power to exist in
town, was uncommonly full,--the whole house, I say, was thrown into a
positive fever of expectation. The visit of a guest, if not of greater
consequence at least of greater interest than any who had hitherto
honoured my uncle, was announced. Even the young Count, with the most
imposing air in the world and the finest eyes, was forgotten by
everybody but the Duchess of Lackland and her daughters, who had just
returned to Devereux Court to observe how amazingly the Count had grown!
Oh! what a prodigy wisdom would be, if it were but blest with a memory
as keen and constant as that of interest!

Struck with the universal excitement, I went to my uncle to inquire the
name of the expected guest. My uncle was occupied in fanning the Lady
Hasselton, a daughter of one of King Charles's Beauties. He had only
time to answer me literally, and without comment; the guest's name was
Mr. St. John.

I had never conned the "Flying Post," and I knew nothing about politics.
"Who is Mr. St. John?" said I; my uncle had renewed the office of a
zephyr. The daughter of the Beauty heard and answered, "The most
charming person in England." I bowed and turned away. "How vastly
explanatory!" said I. I met a furious politician. "Who is Mr. St.
John?" I asked.

"The cleverest man in England," answered the politician, hurrying off
with a pamphlet in his hand.

"Nothing can be more satisfactory," thought I. Stopping a coxcomb of