The altered tone of Emmeline’s voice, since he had last heard it, probably struck Fitzhenry, for he hastily raised his eyes towards her. Her countenance, her manner, all was changed; the bright colour in her cheeks was gone; the smile that had played round her mouth had vanished: Pelham’s eyes too were fixed upon her, and Fitzhenry observed it. Again he glanced at them both, and then for some minutes seemed totally lost in thought, till Lady Saville, moving towards the door to go, and wishing him good night, he was roused from his reverie; he offered her his arm, and both he and Pelham went down stairs with her. For a few minutes, Emmeline listened for Fitzhenry’s return—she almost hoped he would enquire into the cause of what he might deem her ill humour: in short, at that moment, she felt she should be glad of any opening from him that could possibly bring matters to a crisis, however painful that crisis might be; for she felt as if it was impossible to go on enduring her present existence. But, after pacing the room for some time in nervous anxiety, which increased on hearing a footstep on the stairs, she was at length obliged to give up even that hope, as Reynolds alone entered the room, and immediately after, she heard the door of Fitzhenry’s apartment close. Convinced that she had now done all she could; that she had battled with her fate as much as possible; and, seeing that every exertion and endeavour to please and win him, only seemed to cast her further from him, she resolved to give over the vain struggle, and for her own sake, at least, endeavour in reality to be the frivolous, heartless being he thought her. And thus, in a sort of desperation, flying from herself, and from a cheerless home, which only reminded her of her blighted youth and hopes, she followed Lady Saville to every dissipation that was proposed. The last, and apparently the gayest, at every amusement; bright with false smiles and false colours; poor Emmeline endeavoured to conceal, beneath excited spirits, an aching heart: but the labour was such, that it allowed of no respite. One day left to herself, her own sad reflections again rushed back, and with increased acuteness—all her disappointed, withered feelings, the suffering present, and the cheerless future, pressed upon her soul. To pause in the mad career of dissipation was therefore impossible. She danced, she laughed, she talked. All shyness, all feeling even, seemed to have vanished, and her eyes sparkled with that feverish dazzle, so unlike the bright sunshine of happiness, but so often mistaken for it by a thoughtless, uninterested observer. How falsely do those of the world mutually pass sentence on each other! Meeting, perhaps, merely in the gay resorts of fashion, each individual attributes to the other that worldliness and frivolity which belongs to the scene, but which they apply to the character—and how false such judgments are, those may declare, who by