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The truth would seem to be—if we dare use such a word in such a connection—that all these groups ofpeople lie under an enchantment. The hostess is ourmodern Sibyl. She is a witch who lays her guests undera 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 illusions 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 currentcoversation as a cannon ball lays low the violets and the daisies.