Emmeline felt her husband’s arm round her waist; her hand was clasped in his, and his breath played on her forehead. Her feelings almost overcame her! Her heart beat so violently that she could hardly breathe, and again her head turned round. Fitzhenry, as Mr. Moore had said, was an excellent waltzer—he had waltzed much at Vienna, where his intimacy with Lady Florence had commenced by her teaching him this very dance. Without any seeming effort, he bore along Emmeline’s slight form—for already she could hardly support herself. She fancied he pressed her more closely to him—it could, alas! be only fancy; but quite overcome, and complaining of faintness, she begged him, in a scarcely audible voice, to stop. He immediately withdrew his arm, took her to a chair, and seeing her really near fainting, fetched her a glass of water. Every thing conspired to overpower poor Emmeline: it was with difficulty she restrained her tears, and as soon as she could trust herself to walk, she left the room. But no Fitzhenry followed to ask an explanation of her conduct; and in darkness, and alone, she no longer endeavoured to stifle her feelings. Fitzhenry was evidently annoyed: there had been an expression of displeasure, of formal, almost ironical civility on his countenance, when forced to offer himself as her partner, that she had never seen before, and which penetrated her heart. And then, though mere common compassion had made him assist her when unwell, yet it was almost beyond his usual coldness to allow her to leave the room alone, careless of what had affected her, or whether she had recovered or not. It was impossible to endeavour to explain herself before others, and Fitzhenry now carefully avoided their ever being _tête-à-tête_. “Thus ends,” thought Emmeline, “the vain dream—the last hope of ever winning him! Indifference is growing into dislike; and soon we shall be more than total strangers to each other.” As she uttered these words, a gentle knock at the door made her heart beat. It could only be him—and in an instant passing to the most delightful anticipations, with a trembling voice, she gave leave to enter. The door opened: but even through the darkness of the room, she soon saw her mistake, for it was merely Lady Saville who came to enquire after her. “My dear Lady Fitzhenry,” said she, “I fear you are not well, so I ventured to come and doctor you a little.” “Oh! it is nothing,” replied Emmeline, with difficulty restraining fresh tears of disappointment: “I have not waltzed lately, and it made me very giddy, that is all.” “And perhaps you should not have waltzed now,” added Lady Saville; “for really you have not been looking well lately; we have all remarked it. You overfag yourself with your constant endeavours to amuse our good country neighbours, and with those long rides which you will take, for I am sure you are not strong.”