It was always the six weeks confinement that was the undoing of Lady Jersey. Being a mother is, of course, the greatest joy of her life, and she professes herself to all to be exceedingly fond of her children; it is only that as a lady of good humour and vigorous good health she takes joy in so many other things, and there are so many others she is so very fond of.
The transformation undertaken by Barbara at her every return to The World was now well underway; by the end of the first act the laughter of the crowd had lifted her spirits, the whispers she elicited from her box on high inflated her mood, and the recognition from those acquaintances of many years-regardless of what side their regard for her, and her reputation, falls on-as she entered the ballroom of Melbourne House brought a clarity to her mind that she had not felt in some months.
Her presence, as always, was not insubstantial. What the crowd obscured of her movements her headdress betrayed; a dyed aigrette bobbed and swayed on a slight delay as she nodded and curtseyed in acknowledgement and kissed the cheeks of those ladies she would consider of intimate acquaintance and long friendship.
It was not long after having acknowledged her hosts that Lady J found herself with a glass of claret in hand, joining a group of those of both old and new acquaintance discussing their opinions on the night’s entertainment. “Oh, I thought it was marvelous, truly! The Camp itself should have been so entertaining, and personally I have always taken parody as the highest compliment, you know, and Mr Sheridan is the master of the art.” Taking a sip of her claret, she turned to a handsome good fellow to whom she had just been introduced-oh, how she had missed the company of People. “And may I solicit your opinion, my Lord Palmerston?”
