Fitzhenry saw but too plainly the drift of all this, and he was totally at a loss for an answer. His eyes, fearful of meeting those of Mr. Benson, wandered round the room, till they fell on a view of Naples which hung over the chimney. The sight was not favourable to the picture of _English happiness_ which Mr. Benson had just been presenting to him. Hours of rapture produced by the first intoxication of passion, beneath an Italian sky, and amid scenes calculated to enhance every feeling of romantic enjoyment, rose up before him in an instant, and formed such a contrast to the homely, domestic comfort just held out to him, that his very soul sickened at the thought; and, making some awkward sort of vague answer to Mr. Benson’s _very pointed_ remark, he abruptly left him. Ernest had expected to have found his father irritated against him, in consequence of his long absence and his frequent excuses for not obeying his summons to return home. He also feared that the real cause of his protracted stay might have reached England, and he dreaded how much of his story, since they had parted, might have been made known to Lord Arlingford. But the manner of his father was so perfectly kind and cordial, that it reassured Ernest as to his secret being as yet safe, and at the same time filled his affectionate heart with gratitude and self reproach. Some days after his arrival, when talking on various subjects connected with the place, estate, &c., Lord Arlingford suddenly said, “Mr. Benson, as soon as I am a little better, and fit for visitors, you must write in my name, and invite Mrs. Benson and Emmeline to come here. Ernest must be impatient to see his little wife. Eh, my boy?” Ernest did not parry this second attack any better than the first—he started, and stammered out something about “pleasure, honour.” But his father did not, or would not, see his reluctance to touch on the subject; he returned again and again to the charge, said his happiness, his life even, depended upon the marriage; and by the nervous irritation which illness had produced, and which opposition to his will increased, Ernest feared he spoke truly. Harassed and perplexed, Ernest at last took courage, and resolved to confess to his father the attachment he had formed abroad—his unalterable, violent, decided devotion to another. Lord Arlingford seemed breathless with anger and anxiety, and imperatively desired him to inform him who was the object of it. Lord Fitzhenry cleared his voice, rose from his chair, paced the room, and twice, in vain, tried to speak; but at last making an effort, “she is a married woman,” he said, “Lady Florence Mostyn.” The name was scarcely audible.