At moments, too, her natural gaiety was not to be restrained; and when, on the third evening of their residence at Arlingford, her laughing eye caught the look of astonishment in the old butler’s countenance, when, as he entered the room, he found the supposed lovers occupied with their books at opposite ends of the apartment, apparently as unconscious of each other’s presence as any indifferent pair after a dozen years’ marriage,—she could not command the inclination to laughter that overcame her. Lord Fitzhenry looked up astonished. “I am much diverted with what I am reading,” said Emmeline, to account for her sudden burst of mirth, (colouring at the same time, with the consciousness of her departure from truth,) although perhaps not sorry of an opportunity of showing him, that even in _his_ society, when so totally neglected by him, and after all he had said and done to depress her spirits, she was still disposed to cheerfulness. “May I ask what book you are reading, that I may benefit also by the entertainment,” replied her husband. “Perhaps you would not be equally amused by it,” said she. “Sometimes little things tickle our fancy, without our being able to say why; and much depends on the humour we are in.” Lord Fitzhenry looked a little disconcerted, and Emmeline could not be so generous as to regret it. But in his society, she soon ceased to show either spirit or triumph; soon forgot to be angry. The mildness of his manners, the charm of his conversation, when sometimes for a little he seemed to forget their peculiar situation, and to give way to his natural habits and disposition, soon won upon Emmeline, and, with a sigh, she thought, “How she _could_ have loved him!” When galloping on before her, and when certain she should not be observed, her eyes were fixed on his manly, graceful figure, and she admired the ease, and indescribable _elegance_ (if one may use a word so degraded) of all his actions. There is something in the manners and conversation of an intelligent man of the world, which it is impossible adequately to describe,—which, without being either information or wit, pleases more than either. It is, perhaps, the art of giving to each subject no more than its due proportion of time and thought, which prevents conversation from becoming tedious, and hinders any idea, however serious, from weighing too heavily on the mind. Fitzhenry possessed this art in a superlative degree; and Emmeline, to whom such conversation was almost totally new, and who by nature was formed to appreciate every refinement, was powerfully captivated by it. And, added to this, there was a certain foreign gallantry of manner, (that among her father’s acquaintance she had certainly never experienced,) and a habit of attention to women, which, in Fitzhenry, was so strong, that his behaviour, even to Emmeline, partook of it—to her, whom he never looked at, nor apparently noticed.