“Your wishes are irresistible, Lady Chatterton,” said John, coolly turning on his heel.  On gaining the other side of the room, he turned to reconnoitre the scene.  The dowager was fanning herself as violently as if she had been up the last two figures instead of her daughter, while Grace sat with her eyes fastened on the floor, paler than usual.  “Grace,” thought the young man, “would be very handsome—­very sweet—­very—­very everything that is agreeable, if—­if it were not for Mother Chatterton.”  He then led out one of the prettiest girls in the room.

Col.  Egerton was peculiarly fitted to shine in a ball room.  He danced gracefully and with spirit; was perfectly at home with all the usages of the best society, and was never neglectful of any of those little courtesies which have their charm for the moment; and Jane Moseley, who saw all those she loved around her, apparently as happy as herself, found in her judgment or the convictions of her principles, no counterpoise against the weight of such attractions, all centred as it were in one effort to please herself.  His flattery was deep for it was respectful—­his tastes were her tastes—­his opinions her opinions.  On the formation of their acquaintance they differed on some trifling point of poetical criticism, and for near a month the colonel had maintained his opinion with a show of firmness; but opportunities not wanting for the discussion, he had felt constrained to yield to her better judgment, her purer taste.  The conquest of Colonel Egerton was complete, and Jane who saw in his attentions the submission of a devoted heart, began to look forward to the moment with trembling that was to remove the thin barrier that existed between the adulation of the eyes and the most delicate assiduity to please, and the open confidence of declared love.  Jane Moseley had a heart to love, and to love strongly; her danger existed in her imagination:  it was brilliant, unchastened by her judgment, we had almost said unfettered by her principles.  Principles such as are found in every-day maxims and rules of conduct sufficient to restrain her within the bounds of perfect decorum she was furnished with in abundance; but to that principle which was to teach her submission in opposition to her wishes, to that principle that could alone afford her security against the treachery of her own passions, she was an utter stranger.

The family of Sir Edward were, among the first to retire, and as the Chattertons had their own carriage, Mrs. Wilson and her charge returned alone in the coach of the former.  Emily, who had been rather out of spirits the latter-part of the evening, broke the silence by suddenly observing,

“Colonel Egerton is, or soon will be, a perfect hero!”

Her aunt somewhat surprised, both with the abruptness and with the strength of the remark, inquired her meaning.

“Oh, Jane will make him one, whether or not.”