Withdrawing to a quiet nook, whence unobserved I could observe--the ball, its splendours and its pleasures, passed before me as a spectacle.
Again Ginevra Fanshawe was the belle, the fairest and the gayest present; she was selected to open the ball: very lovely she looked, very gracefully she danced, very joyously she smiled.

Such scenes were her triumphs--she was the child of pleasure.

Work or suffering found her listless and dejected, powerless and repining; but gaiety expanded her butterfly's wings, lit up their gold-dust and bright spots, made her flash like a gem, and flush like a flower.

At all ordinary diet and plain beverage she would pout; but she fed on creams and ices like a humming-bird on honey-paste: sweet wine was her element, and sweet cake her daily bread.

Ginevra lived her full life in a ball-room; elsewhere she drooped dispirited.
Think not, reader, that she thus bloomed and sparkled for the mere sake of M.Paul, her partner, or that she lavished her best graces that night for the edification of her companions only, or for that of the parents and grand-parents, who filled the carre, and lined the ball-room; under circumstances so insipid and limited, with motives so chilly and vapid, Ginevra would scarce have deigned to walk one quadrille, and weariness and fretfulness would have replaced animation and good-humour, but she knew of a leaven in the otherwise heavy festal mass which lighted the whole; she tasted a condiment which gave it zest; she perceived reasons justifying the display of her choicest attractions.
In the ball-room, indeed, not a single male spectator was to be seen who was not married and a father--M.