Lady Florence, after speaking to one or two other people, went up to Lady Mowbray, and seated herself by her, luckily at some distance from where Emmeline was placed. Lady Florence was past the first bloom and beauty of youth; but this was more apparent in the somewhat thickened contour of her figure, than in her face. Her deep blue eyes were still brilliant; her lovely chiselled mouth still opened to show teeth like pearls, and the roses and lillies still contended in her cheeks. She was simply dressed; but there was not a curl, however careless it appeared, but fell just where it should, and the large shawl in which she was wrapped, took some new graceful fold each time she moved, and by its brilliant colours gave additional effect to the delicate whiteness of a round arm, covered with bracelets. Her voice, and look, were sweetness itself; but in her eyes, an expression lurked, that recalled to the mind, Walter Scott’s “Wiley Dame Heron.” Lost in a trance of most painful feelings, Emmeline sat for some time like a statue, without power to form any resolution, as to whether she would fly or face her enemy. _There_ was the being who reigned paramount in her husband’s heart! Those were the eyes on which he gazed with fondness! on that hand he had sworn constancy! on those lips he had sealed his vows! the silver tones of that voice thrilled to _his_ heart, as his did to hers! Poor Emmeline gazed on all these charms, till, growing frightened at her own increasing agitation, she hastily got up, and moved towards the door. “My dear Lady Fitzhenry,” exclaimed Lady Mowbray, who unfortunately had observed her intended departure, “I hope you are not already going?” At that name, the eyes of Lady Florence eagerly followed those of the speaker, and rested on Emmeline. And, for an instant, as if impelled by some power they could not resist, the rivals glanced at each other, and their eyes met. But Emmeline’s soon fell beneath the scrutiny, and she turned away her death-like face. The whole expression of Lady Florence’s countenance had changed. Emmeline’s appearance, every way so different from what she had expected, in an instant roused, within her, feelings she could scarcely command. Her uncontrolled passions were plainly painted in her face; the deep crimson in her cheeks overcame the well applied rouge; her eyes flashed fire; and the lovely smile on her lips, was replaced by a fearful expression of “envy, hatred, and malice.” Emmeline, scarcely able to support herself, and endeavouring to utter some excuse, still moved towards the door. “Well, really you are using me very shabbily,” said Lady Mowbray, in reply to her uncertain accents, and following her with most officious civility. “But I know this is the moment when it is impossible to keep any body for half an hour; and quiet, sober people, like myself, have no chance of collecting anything like agreeable society. I suppose you are going to the D——e house, or some such gay thing.”