On the day appointed for the first party, Emmeline, as was generally now the case, dined alone. During her solitary repast, she made firm resolutions that she would act upon the advice Pelham had given her at Arlingford—put that mask on her feelings which he recommended, and adopt those manners of the world that he said Fitzhenry admired. Emmeline had a sort of natural _tact_ on all such subjects; and, had she been in the habit of doing the honours of her own house, during her whole life, she could not have acquitted herself better. All were delighted with her, and with the evening’s amusement. It was not till towards the close of it, that Fitzhenry appeared. Long had poor Emmeline’s eyes anxiously wandered toward the door, watching for his entrance; and when at last he came, it was not without difficulty that she continued to perform her gay part with spirit; but a momentary break in what she was saying—a rapid beating of her heart, and the deepened colour in her cheek, alone betrayed her agitation at his presence. He came up to her; remarked how well the rooms were lighted; complimented her on the disposal of the furniture—on her arrangement of the flowers: and, in return, the poor hypocrite played her part well. She carelessly asked his opinion as to the placing of the lamps and the pianoforte. Even attempted at rallying him on his absence; and to all appearance no two people could be on an easier footing. The company were by this time beginning to clear away. As they dispersed, Emmeline eagerly looked around for Fitzhenry. She thought he had noticed her more than usual, and she determined to follow up this little fancied success, by assuming a careless gaiety, which she certainly did not feel, but which she sometimes believed she would do well to adopt. When, therefore, she had performed her last act of civility to her last guest, she hurried back to the spot where she had left him. But he too had disappeared. Alone she paced the now silent, empty rooms, lost in thought, and totally forgetful of the lateness of the hour, until at length, the entrance of Reynolds rousing her from her trance, she hastily retired into her own room—but not to sleep.—Various thoughts agitated her mind: sometimes even hope, (albeit of late not a usual visitor,) forced itself in: Fitzhenry had certainly smiled on her; he had appeared pleased; had even seemed to take interest in her attempt, and she determined to persevere.