Love, eternal love, is her favourite topic of conversation; a topic unsuited to discussion at her age and in her position.
To hear a woman, no longer young, talking passionately of love, has something so absurd in it, that I am pained for Lady C., who is really a kind-hearted and amiable woman.

Her definitions of the passion, and descriptions of its effects, remind me of the themes furnished by Scudery, and are as tiresome as the tales of a traveller recounted some fifty years after he has made his voyage.

Lady H., who is older than Lady G., opens wide her round eyes, laughs, and exclaims, "Oh, dear!--how very strange!--well, that is so funny!" until Lady C.draws up with all the dignity of a heroine of romance, and asserts that "few, very few, are capable of either feeling or comprehending the passion." A fortunate state for those who are no longer able to inspire it! To grow old gracefully, proves no ordinary powers of mind, more especially in one who has been (oh, what an odious phrase that same _has been_ is!) a beauty.

Well has it been observed by a French writer, that women no longer young and handsome should forget that they ever were so.
I have been reading Wordsworth's poems again, and I verily believe for the fiftieth time.

They contain a mine of lofty, beautiful, and natural thoughts.