That you saw, of course.  But after she had spoken you saw much more.  Mrs. Mountstuart said it just as others utter empty nothings, with never a hint of a stress.  Her word was taken up, and very soon, from the extreme end of the long drawing-room, the circulation of something of Mrs. Mountstuart’s was distinctly perceptible.  Lady Patterne sent a little Hebe down, skirting the dancers, for an accurate report of it; and even the inappreciative lips of a very young lady transmitting the word could not damp the impression of its weighty truthfulness.  It was perfect!  Adulation of the young Sir Willoughby’s beauty and wit, and aristocratic bearing and mien, and of his moral virtues, was common; welcome if you like, as a form of homage; but common, almost vulgar, beside Mrs. Mountstuart’s quiet little touch of nature.  In seeming to say infinitely less than others, as Miss Isabel Patterne pointed out to Lady Busshe, Mrs. Mountstuart comprised all that the others had said, by showing the needlessness of allusions to the saliently evident.  She was the aristocrat reproving the provincial.  “He is everything you have had the goodness to remark, ladies and dear sirs, he talks charmingly, dances divinely, rides with the air of a commander-in-chief, has the most natural grand pose possible without ceasing for a moment to be the young English gentleman he is.  Alcibiades, fresh from a Louis iv perruquier, could not surpass him:  whatever you please; I could outdo you in sublime comparisons, were I minded to pelt him.  Have you noticed that he has a leg?”

So might it be amplified.  A simple-seeming word of this import is the triumph of the spiritual, and where it passes for coin of value, the society has reached a high refinement:  Arcadian by the aesthetic route.  Observation of Willoughby was not, as Miss Eleanor Patterne pointed out to Lady Culmer, drawn down to the leg, but directed to estimate him from the leg upward.  That, however, is prosaic.  Dwell a short space on Mrs. Mountstuart’s word; and whither, into what fair region, and with how decorously voluptuous a sensation, do not we fly, who have, through mournful veneration of the Martyr Charles, a coy attachment to the Court of his Merrie Son, where the leg was ribanded with love-knots and reigned.  Oh! it was a naughty Court.  Yet have we dreamed of it as the period when an English cavalier was grace incarnate; far from the boor now hustling us in another sphere; beautifully mannered, every gesture dulcet.  And if the ladies were . . . we will hope they have been traduced.  But if they were, if they were too tender, ah! gentlemen were gentlemen then—­worth perishing for!  There is this dream in the English country; and it must be an aspiration after some form of melodious gentlemanliness which is imagined to have inhabited the island at one time; as among our poets the dream of the period of a circle of chivalry here is encouraged for the pleasure of the imagination.