WE WILL go and make a morning call. The garish light of day, that never suits a chamber, was broken by a muslin veil, which sent its softened twilight through a room of moderate dimensions but of princely decoration, and which opened into a conservatory. The choice saloon was hung with rose-coloured silk, which diffused a delicate tint over the inlaid and costly cabinets. It was crowded with tables covered with bijouterie. Apparently, however, a road had been cut through the furniture, by which you might wind your way up to the divinity of the temple. A ravishing perfume, which was ever changing, wandered through the apartment. Now a violet breeze made you poetical; now a rosy gale called you to love. And ever and anon the strange but thrilling breath of some rare exotic summoned you, like an angel, to opening Eden. All was still and sweet, save that a fountain made you, as it were, more conscious of silence; save that the song of birds made you, as it were, more sensible of sweetness.

Upon a couch, her small head resting upon an arm covered with bracelets, which blazed like a Sol-dan’s treasure, reclined Mrs. Dallington Vere.

She is in thought. Is her abstracted eye fixed in admiration upon that twinkling foot which, clothed in its Russian slipper, looks like a serpent’s tongue, small, red, and pointed; or does a more serious feeling than self-admiration inspire this musing? Ah! a cloud courses over that pellucid brow. Tis gone, but it frowned like the harbinger of a storm. Again! A small but blood-red blush rises into that clear cheek. It was momentary, but its deep colour indicated that it came from the heart. Her eye lights up with a wild and glittering fire, but the flash vanishes into darkness, and gloom follows the unnatural light. She clasps her hands; she rises from an uneasy seat, though supported by a thousand pillows, and she paces the conservatory.

A guest is announced. It is Sir Lucius Grafton.

He salutes her with that studied courtesy which shows they are only friends, but which, when maintained between intimate acquaintance, sometimes makes wicked people suspect that they once perhaps were more. She resumes her seat, and he throws himself into an easy chair which is opposite.

‘Your note I this moment received, Bertha, and I am here. You perceive that my fidelity is as remarkable as ever.’

‘We had a gay meeting last night.’

‘Very much so. So Lady Araminta has at last shown mercy.’

‘I cannot believe it.’

‘I have just had a note from Challoner, preliminary, I suppose, to my trusteeship. You are not the only person who holds my talents for business in high esteem.’

‘But Ballingford; what will he say?’

‘That is his affair; and as he never, to my knowledge, spoke to the purpose, his remarks now, I suppose, are not fated to be much more apropos.’

‘Yet he can say things. We all know ——’

‘Yes, yes, we all know; but nobody believes. That is the motto of the present day; and the only way to neutralise scandal, and to counteract publicity.’

Mrs. Dallington was silent, and looked uneasy; and her friend perceiving that, although she had sent to him so urgent a billet, she did not communicate, expressed a little surprise.

‘But you wish to see me, Bertha?’

‘I do very much, and to speak to you. For these many days I have intended it; but I do not know how it is, I have postponed and postponed our interview. I begin to believe,’ she added, looking up with a faint smile, ‘I am half afraid to speak.’

‘Good God!’ said the Baronet, really alarmed, ‘you are in no trouble?’

‘Oh, no! make yourself easy. Trouble, trouble! No, no! I am not exactly in trouble. I am not in debt; I am not in a scrape; but — but — but I am in something — something worse, perhaps: I am in love.’

The Baronet looked puzzled. He did not for a moment suspect himself to be the hero; yet, although their mutual confidence was illimitable, he did not exactly see why, in the present instance, there had been such urgency to impart an event not altogether either unnatural or miraculous.

‘In love!’ said Sir Lucius; ‘a very proper situation for the prettiest woman in London. Everybody is in love with you; and I heartily rejoice that some one of our favoured sex is about to avenge our sufferings.’

‘Point de moquerie, Lucy! I am miserable.’

‘Dear little pigeon, what is the matter?’

‘Ah, me!’

‘Speak,-speak,’ said he, in a gay tone; ‘you were not made for sighs, but smiles. Begin ——’

‘Well, then, the young Duke ——’

‘The deuce!’ said Sir Lucius, alarmed.

‘Oh! no! make yourself easy,’ said Mrs. Dallington, smiling; ‘no counterplot, I assure you, although really you do not deserve to succeed.’

‘Then who is it?’ eagerly asked Sir Lucius.

‘You will not let me speak. The young Duke ——’

‘Damn the Duke!’

‘How impatient you are, Lucy! I must begin with the beginning. Well, the young Duke has something to do with it.’

‘Pray be explicit.’

‘In a word, then,’ said Mrs. Dallington, in a low voice, but with an expression of earnestness which Sir Lucius had never before remarked, ‘I am in love, desperately in love, with one whom hitherto, in accordance with your wishes, I have been driving into the arms of another. Our views, our interests are opposite; but I wish to act fairly, if possible; I wish to reconcile them; and it is for this purpose that I have summoned you this morning.’

‘Arundel Dacre!’ said Sir Lucius, quietly, and he rapped his cane on his boot. The blood-red spot again rose in his companion’s cheek.

There was silence for a moment. Sir Lucius would not disturb it, and Mrs. Dallington again spoke.

‘St. James and the little Dacre have again met. You have my secret. I do not ask your good services with Arundel, which I might at another time; but you cannot expect me to work against myself. Depend, then, no longer on my influence with May Dacre; for to be e............