“Come, Moore, no more of this nonsense; give me the brooch, and Lady Fitzhenry and I can afterwards settle to which of us it belongs.” “As lord of the manor, I suppose you claim all stray goods,” rejoined Moore; “otherwise I must say yours is a most despotic measure, and a little like the lion in the fable.” At this, Miss Danvers, who had been some time tittering, burst into an immoderate fit of laughter. “How droll Mr. Moore is!” she exclaimed: “pray, Lord Fitzhenry, let me look at this brooch; there is such a fuss about it that it must be something very extraordinary, and I am sure I could make out the letters,” said she, looking significantly at Moore, “for I know all sorts of mottos, and sentiments, and those kind of things, for brooches, and bracelets, and purses, and seals,”—and she held out her hand for the brooch. “It is not worth looking at,” said Fitzhenry, coldly, as he put it into his pocket. “I think the lion is a little gruff,” whispered the young lady to her neighbour at the breakfast-table, and again laughed violently at what she imagined to be wit. “Well,” she continued, “I give notice, that when I marry, I mean to have my own way, and be my own mistress, and not be so submissive as Lady Fitzhenry. I shall have as many brooches as I please, given me by whom I please; for I suspect,” added she, significantly, “there is some story about this brooch—some mystery we none of us know; but I am determined I will find it out: it is just the sort of thing I like—and see how Lady Fitzhenry blushes—I am getting near the mark, I suspect.” “Don’t rattle on so foolishly, Selina,” said her mother, trying to check her talkative daughter. “That is what mamma always says,” retorted Miss Danvers, pettishly, and looking round for support in her denial of the charge of folly. “Mamma never lets me speak, which is very hard, for I am sure I am saying no harm,” added she, addressing Mr. Moore, whom she seemed to have dubbed her champion. “I never presume to contradict mammas,” answered he; “otherwise I should say that such a mouth could never utter any thing which it would not be agreeable to hear.” The young lady giggled, and, encouraged by the compliment, went on— “Pray, Mr. Moore, _seriously_, as you are a lawyer, will you tell me, have husbands a right by law to read all their wives’ letters, as well as seize on their naughty brooches? Lady Fitzhenry, does Lord Fitzhenry read all your letters?” “I should think he would be sorry to take the trouble,” said Emmeline, forced to reply to so direct a question, although from the quickness with which one silly idea chased another in Selina’s mind, she seldom required any answer.