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e take leave to doubt。 Often a dumb hour is the most ravishing of all； brilliant wit can be tedious beyond description。 But to the poets we leave it； and so on with our story。
Orlando threw the second stocking after the first and went to bed dismally enough； determined that she would forswear society for ever。 But again as it turned out； she was too hasty in ing to her conclusions。 For the very next morning she woke to find； among the usual cards of invitation upon her table； one from a certain great Lady； the Countess of R。 Having determined overnight that she would never go into society again； we can only explain Orlando’s behaviour—she sent a messenger hot–foot to R— House to say that she would attend her Ladyship with all the pleasure in the world—by the fact that she was still suffering from the effect of three honeyed words dropped into her ear on the deck of the “Enamoured Lady” by Captain Nicholas Benedict Bartolus as they sailed down the Thames。 Addison； Dryden； Pope； he had said； pointing to the Cocoa Tree； and Addison； Dryden； Pope had chimed in her head like an incantation ever since。 Who can credit such folly？ but so it was。 All her experience with Nick Greene had taught her nothing。 Such names still exercised over her the most powerful fascination。 Something； perhaps； we must believe in； and as Orlando； we have said； had no belief in the usual divinities she bestowed her credulity upon great men—yet with a distinction。 Admirals； soldiers； statesmen； moved her not at all。 But the very thought of a great writer stirred her to such a pitch of belief that she almost believed him to be invisible。 Her instinct was a sound one。 One can only believe entirely； perhaps； in what one cannot see。 The little glimpse she had of these great men from the deck of the ship was of the nature of a vision。 That the cup was china； or the gazette paper； she doubted。 When Lord O。 said one day that he had dined with Dryden the night before； she flatly disbelieved him。 Now； the Lady R。’s reception room had the reputation of being the antechamber to the presence room of genius； it was the place where men and women met to swing censers and chant hymns to the bust of genius in a niche in the wall。 Sometimes the God himself vouchsafed his presence for a moment。 Intellect alone admitted the suppliant； and nothing （so the report ran） was said inside that was not witty。
It was thus with great trepidation that Orlando entered the room。 She found a pany already assembled in a semicircle round the fire。 Lady R。； an oldish lady； of dark plexion； with a black lace mantilla on her head； was seated in a great arm–chair in the centre。 Thus being somewhat deaf； she could control the conversation on both sides of her。 On both sides of her sat men and women of the highest distinction。 Every man； it was said； had been a Prime Minister and every woman； it was whispered； had been the mistress of a king。 Certain it is that all were brilliant； and all were famous。 Orlando took her seat with a deep reverence in silence。。。After three hours； she curtseyed profoundly and left。
But what； the reader may ask with some exasperation； happened in between。 In three hours； such a pany must have said the wittiest； the profoundest； the most interesting things in the world。 So it would seem indeed。 But the fact appears to be that they said nothing。 It is a curious characteristic which they share with all the most brilliant societies that the world has seen。 Old Madame du Deffand and her friends talked for fifty years without stopping。 And of it all； what remains？ Perhaps three witty sayings。 So that we are at liberty to suppose either that nothing was said； or that nothing witty was said； or that the fraction of three witty sayings lasted eighteen thousand two hundred and fifty nights； which does not leave a liberal allowance of wit for any one of them。
The truth would seem to be—if we dare use such a word in such a connection—that all these groups of people lie under an enchantment。 The hostess is our modern Sibyl。 She is a witch who lays her guests under a spell。 In this house they think themselves happy； in that witty； in a third profound。 It is all an illusion （which is nothing against it； for illusions are the most valuable and necessary of all things； and she who can create one is among the world’s greatest benefactors）； but as it is notorious that illusions are shattered by conflict with reality； so no real happiness； no real wit； no real profundity are tolerated where the illusion prevails。 This serves to explain why Madame du Deffand said no more than three witty things in the course of fifty years。 Had she said more； her circle would have been destroyed。 The witticism； as it left her lips； bowled over the current conversation as a cannon ball lays low the violets and the daisies。 When she made her famous ‘mot de Saint Denis’ the very grass was singed。 Disillusionment and desolation followed。 Not a word was uttered。 ‘Spare us another such； for Heaven’s sake； Madame！’ her friends cried with one accord。 And she obeyed。 For almost seventeen years she said nothing memorable and all went well。 The beautiful counterpane of illusion lay unbroken on her circle as it lay unbroken on the circle of Lady R。 The guests thought that they were happy； thought that they were witty； thought that they were profound； and； as they thought this； other people thought it still more strongly； and so it got about that nothing was more delightful than one of Lady R。’s assemblies； everyone envied those who were admitted； those who were admitted envied themselves because other people envied them； and so there seemed no end to it—except that which we have now to relate。
For about the third time Orlando went there a certain incident occurred。 She was still under the illusion that she was listening to the most brilliant epigrams in the world； though； as a matter of fact； old General C。 was only saying； at some length； how the gout had left his left leg and gone to his right； while Mr L。 interrupted when any proper name was mentioned； ‘R。？ Oh！ I know Billy R。 as well as I know myself。 S。？ My dearest friend。 T。？ Stayed with him a fortnight in Yorkshire’—which； suc