For, much as Emmeline might wish to propitiate her husband, and though even a little vanity and pique might enter into the feeling, yet she had no idea of any of the arts of coquetry, and if she now exerted all her powers of agreeableness, it was from the simple wish to make their present melancholy life pass as well as the awkward circumstances in which they were placed allowed. If she might hope _in time_ to _win_ her companion’s _affections_, she gave up, as perfectly hopeless, all attempts to _captivate_ his imagination. And that very feeling made her more at ease, and therefore more agreeable than she could otherwise have been. On all general subjects, Fitzhenry was more than willing to converse. The publications of the day opened a wide field for discussion. It was neutral ground, on which they could meet and parley. There was a peculiar liveliness, and originality in all he said, which Emmeline was not only able to appreciate, but, by taking up his ideas with quickness, to encourage fresh remarks, and even improve upon them. The merits of Sir Walter Scott, Miss Edgeworth, and Southey, were all thoroughly commented upon. Lord Byron came too near home, and, as if by mutual consent, they always avoided him and his writings. One evening—the last they now had to pass alone—Emmeline had somehow wandered in her conversation to Italy; but she immediately observed a cloud of recollections darken her husband’s brow, and, making rather an awkward retreat, she resumed the book she was reading, and which had given rise to her unlucky remark; and never took her eyes from it till the usual time for retiring to her own room. Fitzhenry had also remained silent; but the moment she moved, he started up as if roused from a reverie, lit her candle for her and wished her good night, hoping the slight headache she had complained of would be better next day. The tone of his voice was so agreeable, the expression of his countenance so mild, that she felt with Juliet, “Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I could say good night till it be morrow.” When she reached her own room, unconscious of what she did, she leant her head on her hand, and stood thus for some time at the chimney-piece, on which she had placed her candle, lost in thought. Had she been asked what those thoughts were, perhaps she could not have defined them; but at length, a deep sigh escaped her as she ejaculated to herself “How pleasant he is! and if so to me, whom he dislikes, despises, what must he be to her, to whom his whole mind and heart are laid open? With me it is almost impossible to avoid forbidden subjects—Italy, I see, I must never touch upon. Not only the present but the past belongs to Lady Florence; _I_ am only connected with the future in his mind, and a future to which he looks with dislike and dread.”