obtained leave for their young sons to be admitted into the centre of Parisian refinement.  The English cub, fresh from Eton, was introduced by his tutor into the red and yellow drawing-room, where the great circle of a dozen or more elderly important persons, glittering in jewels and orders, pompous in powder and rouge, ranged in rigid order round the fireplace, followed with the precision of a perfect orchestra the leading word or smile or nod of an ancient Sibyl, who seemed to survey the company with her eyes shut, from a vast chair by the wall.  It is easy to imagine the scene, in all its terrifying politeness.  Madame du Deffand could not tolerate young people; she declared that she did not know what to say to them; and they, no doubt, were in precisely the same difficulty.  To an English youth, unfamiliar with the language and shy as only English youths can be, a conversation with that redoubtable old lady must have been a grim ordeal indeed.  One can almost hear the stumbling, pointless observations, almost see the imploring looks cast, from among the infinitely attentive company, towards the tutor, and the pink ears growing still more pink.  But such awkward moments were rare.  As a rule the days flowed on in easy monotony—­or rather, not the days, but the nights.  For Madame du Deffand rarely rose till five o’clock in the evening; at six she began her reception; and at nine or half-past the central moment of the twenty-four hours arrived—­the moment of supper.  Upon this event the whole of her existence hinged.  Supper, she used to say, was one of the four ends of man, and what the other three were she could never remember.  She lived up to her dictum.  She had an income of L1400 a year, and of this she spent more than half—­L720—­on food.  These figures should be largely increased to give them their modern values; but, economise as she might, she found that she could only just manage to rub along.  Her parties varied considerably in size; sometimes only four or five persons sat down to supper—­sometimes twenty or thirty.  No doubt they were elaborate meals.  In a moment of economy we find the hospitable lady making pious resolutions:  she would no longer give ’des repas’—­only ordinary suppers for six people at the most, at which there should be served nothing more than two entrees, one roast, two sweets, and—­mysterious addition—­’la piece du milieu.’  This was certainly moderate for those days (Monsieur de Jonsac rarely provided fewer than fourteen entrees), but such resolutions did not last long.  A week later she would suddenly begin to issue invitations wildly, and, day after day, her tables would be loaded with provisions for thirty guests.  But she did not always have supper at home.  From time to time she sallied forth in her vast coach and rattled through the streets of Paris to one of her still extant dowagers—­a Marechale, or a Duchesse—­or the more and more ‘delabre President.’  There the same company awaited her as that which met in her