It was August, and town was thinning fast. Parliament still lingered, but only for technical purposes; the political struggle of the session having terminated at the end of July. One social event was yet to be consummated—the marriages of Lothair’s cousins. They were to be married on the same day, at the same time, and in the same place. Westminster Abbey was to be the scene, and, as it was understood that the service was to be choral, great expectations of ecclesiastical splendor and effect were much anticipated by the fair sex. They were, however, doomed to disappointment, for, although the day was fine, the attendance numerous and brilliant beyond precedent, Lord Culloden would have “no popery.” Lord Carisbrooke, who was a ritualist, murmured, and was encouraged in his resistance by Lady Clanmorne and a party, but, as the Duke of Brecon was high and dry, there was a want of united action, and Lord Culloden had his way.

After the ceremony, the world repaired to the mansion of Lord Culloden in Belgrave Square, to inspect the presents, and to partake of a dinner called a breakfast. Cousin Lothair wandered about the rooms, and had the satisfaction of seeing a bracelet with a rare and splendid sapphire which he had given to Lady Flora, and a circlet of diamond stars which he had placed on the brow of the Duchess of Brecon. The St. Aldegondes were the only members of the Brentham family who were present. St. Aldegonde had a taste for marriages and public executions, and Lady St. Aldegonde wandered about with Lothair, and pointed out to him Corisande’s present to his cousins.

“I never was more disappointed than by your family leaving town so early this year,” he said.

“We were quite surprised.”

“I am sorry to bear your sister is indisposed.”

“Corisande! she is perfectly well.”

“I hope the duchess’s headache is better,” said Lothair. “She could not receive me when I called to say farewell, because she had a headache.”

“I never knew mamma to have a headache,” said Lady St. Aldegonde.

“I suppose you will be going to Brentham?”

“Next week.”’

“And Bertram too?”

“I fancy that we shall be all there.”

“I suppose we may consider now that the season is really over!”

“Yes; they stayed for this. I should not be surprised if every one in these rooms had disappeared by tomorrow.”

“Except myself,” said Lothair.

“Do you think of going abroad again?”

“One might as well go,” said Lothair, “as remain.”

“I wish Granville would take me to Paris. It seems so odd not to have seen Paris. All I want is to see the new streets and dine at a caf.”

“Well, you have an object; that is something,” said Lothair. “I have none.”

“Men have always objects,” said Lady St. Aldegonde. “They make business when they have none, or it makes itself. They move about, and it comes.”

“I have moved about a great deal,” said Lothair, “and nothing has come to me but disappointment. I think I shall take to croquet, like that curious gentleman I remember at Brentham.”

“Ah! you remember every thing.”

“It is not easy to forget any thing at Brentham,” said Lothair. “It is just two years ago. That was a happy time.”

“I doubt whether our reassembling will be quite as happy this year,” said Lady St. Aldegonde, in a serious tone. “This engagement of Bertram is an anxious business; I never saw papa before really fret. And there are other things which are not without vexation—at least to mamma.”

“I do not think I am a grea............