The next day was that on which they expected Lord Arlingford; and Emmeline, when she met her husband at breakfast, was concerned to see that all those miserable, agitated feelings, which had apparently much subsided, had now returned worse than ever. During that meal, he was so hurried, so abstracted, that when after it was over, he had placed himself at the window to read the newspaper, she ventured to go up to him, and purposely said something about his father’s arrival, hoping that she might dispel the anxiety which seemed to oppress him, by showing him how little Lord Arlingford’s presence would add to her awkward feelings. She therefore, to open the subject, asked at what time he thought he would arrive. Fitzhenry, without taking his eyes off the paper, said he did not expect him till dinner-time—there was a pause, Emmeline not knowing well how again to begin—at length, Fitzhenry himself broke the silence by saying, “Had you not better write to Mr. and Mrs. Benson, and propose their making us a visit here soon? You will probably be anxious to meet them before long.” “Thank you very much,” exclaimed Emmeline, quite moved by the kindness of his proposal, and feeling as if she could have seized with affection on the hand that rested on the edge of the window near her. For a minute, the temptation was strong; her breath came quick, and the blood rushed into her cheeks. But those cruel words in Fitzhenry’s letter, “my affections can never be yours,” flashed like lightning across her mind, and prevented her from forgetting herself. Still lost in thought, there she stood. It seemed as if he felt the awkwardness of the moment, and made a motion to go. “Perhaps then you will give me a frank for my father,” she said timidly, and wishing to detain him. “Certainly, with pleasure;” and he sat down to the table to write it. As he gave it her, his hand trembled. Again Emmeline’s better judgment failed her—again her feelings, unused to concealment, got the better of her prudence. Sorry to observe his excessive perturbation, and wishing as far as she could to alleviate it, while taking the frank from his hand, and without raising her eyes from the writing, she said in a tremulous voice, “Don’t distress yourself——indeed you may trust me.” Alas! these words had the direct contrary effect from what she had meant and hoped. Fitzhenry started up, and hurried out of the room. “What have I done!” thought poor Emmeline, as the door closed upon him. “I have forgotten my promise, broken my word—I have displeased him!” and she sank on the chair he had quitted. She hoped he would return; but he did not come. She then thought she would write to him, but, fortunately, nothing which she could express, satisfied her feelings; and, at length, she resolved that she would rather try and make him forget one unguarded word, by never referring to it, and never again so offending.