One blamed my riding--a second my dancing--a third wondered how any woman could like me, and a fourth said that no woman ever could.
On one point, however, all--friends and foes--were alike agreed; viz.
that I was a consummate puppy, and excessively well satisfied with myself.

A la verite, they were not much mistaken there.

Why is it, by the by, that to be pleased with one's-self is the surest way of offending every body else?
If any one, male or female, an evident admirer of his or her own perfections, enter a room, how perturbed, restless, and unhappy every individual of the offender's sex instantly becomes: for them not only enjoyment but tranquillity is over, and if they could annihilate the unconscious victim of their spleen, I fully believe no Christian toleration would come in the way of that last extreme of animosity.

For a coxcomb there is no mercy--for a coquet no pardon.

They are, as it were, the dissenters of society--no crime is too bad to be imputed to them; they do not believe the religion of others--they set up a deity of their own vanity--all the orthodox vanities of others are offended.