“And you need not say more now,” answered Fitzhenry, rather impatiently, without taking his eyes from the Review he was reading; “that foolish affair is settled; we have both our own, and both are satisfied.” “Alas!” thought Emmeline, “how much he is mistaken!” Moore looked at them alternately with an air of incredulity. “Well, you are strange mysterious people,” said he; “but if you are content, I am sure so am I;” and, laying his hand on the first book he saw, and which proved to be Childe Harold, he read some lines of it aloud. “Are you a great admirer of Lord Byron, Lady Fitzhenry?” said he. “Of course,” replied Emmeline, forcing a smile. “Of course of his poetry,” continued Moore; “but I hope _not_ of his sentiments: his descriptions of scenery are beautiful, and sometimes those of feeling and affection; but when he comes to paint his own dark, venom-spitting mind, he is hateful; and it always provokes me, that he should feel the beauties of nature so deeply, and not be the better for that feeling. Have you ever been in Italy, Lady Fitzhenry?” “No, never,” said Emmeline shortly, not much liking to get on such tender ground. “I should have sworn you had; I have heard you talk as if you knew all Italy by heart; and you have in your composition, that suavity of mind and temper, which the sun, the air, the beauteous scenes of Italy, the dark blue of its seas give. I should have been ten times more detestable than I am, had I not passed so much of my life in the pure, soft atmosphere of Italy. I don’t know, by the bye, that my friend Fitzhenry there proves my doctrine true; I don’t think he has benefited much by such education; vide the pin affair. But I suppose it is only the effect of change of climate, and that the cold, dark fogs of this country, have again contracted his heart, and made it selfish and English.” Fitzhenry said nothing, and apparently was engrossed by his book. Mr. Moore continued. “Many a battle Fitzhenry and I have had about Lord Byron—I wonder what side you would take. I never can feel for his imaginary woes. What the deuce is the matter with the fellow? what does he want? He has had every thing this world can give. All the fools and fine ladies running after him, and paying him court _à l’envi l’un de l’autre_; and yet he went grumbling and whining about, despising, and turning up his nose at us all, who are ten times better than himself. He chose, too, to hate and ill-treat his wife, after he had insisted, almost against her own will, or at least against her judgment, to marry her, and she an heiress, into the bargain. This was to be a new distress; and on this he begun, _de plus belle_, to grumble and whine, and moreover to blackguard. Now, Fitzhenry, how do you defend all this?”