IT was Lady Windermere’s last reception before Easter, and Bentinck House was even more crowded than usual. Six Cabinet Ministers had come on from the Speaker’s Levée in their stars and ribands, all the pretty women wore their smartest dresses, and at the end of the picture–gallery stood the Princess Sophia of Carlsrühe, a heavy Tartar–looking lady, with tiny black eyes and wonderful emeralds, talking bad French at the top of her voice, and laughing immoderately at everything that was said to her. It was certainly a wonderful medley of people. Gorgeous peeresses chatted affably to violent Radicals, popular preachers brushed coat–tails with eminent sceptics, a perfect bevy of bishops kept following a stout prima–donna from room to room, on the staircase stood several Royal Academicians, disguised as artists, and it was said that at one time the supper–room was absolutely crammed with geniuses. In fact, it was one of Lady Windermere’s best nights, and the Princess stayed till nearly half–past eleven