“No, my girl, indeed I don’t,” cried Mr. Benson: “do you think I would call you my Emmy, and let you remain one instant under my roof if I thought you were disgraced. On my honour, I believe you, but I am fretted and unhappy. I have toiled for your happiness, and it has ended in nothing but mortification; for I see my darling is not happy, which is more than I can bear,” and tears once more rushed into his eyes. “And who the deuce do they mean by their ‘diplomatic champion?’” added he, again casting his eyes on the paragraph. “The whole is an abominable falsehood,” said Emmeline, in a hurried manner. “They mean Mr. Pelham, I suppose, for he was with me;” and she reddened as she spoke, at the bare possibility of such an insinuation. “Coming out of the opera-house last night, there was a battle between the coachmen—and it seemed as if something disagreeable had passed between Lord Fitzhenry and Mr. Pelham—but it must have been only a misunderstanding—no one was to blame—only when I parted from them last night, they certainly seemed much irritated against each other.” “And have you not seen your husband since?” eagerly enquired Mrs. Benson. “No,” said Emmeline, in a low tone, and averting her head. Mr. Benson gave a significant shrug of his shoulders. “And pray what had you, and Mr. Pelham, and Lord Fitzhenry to do with the fighting of the coachmen; and, above all, what in the name of wonder, had his _chère amie_, as the idiots call her, to do with it at all? whose carriage fought with yours? for I presume, you and your husband were together; surely you can sit in the same coach, though you can’t sleep in the same room?” “I really can’t tell—it was all such a confusion,” replied Emmeline, colouring deeply. “But, dear father, don’t waste time, but, for pity’s sake, send some one to Grosvenor-street, and ask if all is well—and yet, perhaps,” added she, the next minute, alarmed at the possible consequences of her own suggestion, “perhaps it will be better not—it must be all a foolish story.” “I shall go myself to Lord Fitzhenry’s,” said Mr. Benson, after a moment’s reflection. “_You_ go?” exclaimed Emmeline, terrified—“indeed there is no necessity—it is only a trifle—in fact nothing has occurred, only the carriage——I assure you, Lord Fitzhenry will be quite surprised to see you—perhaps displeased—indeed you had better not go.” “I shall judge for myself,” said Mr. Benson, coldly. “I don’t believe one word about the carriage story; your husband would not be such a fool as to fight about a scratched panel; and as for his displeasure, I shall care little for that, for he seems very little to care for mine.” This intention of her father’s seriously alarmed Emmeline; for, in the state of irritation, in which both he and Lord Fitzhenry then were, she dreaded the result of their meeting; and, clinging to Mr. Benson, she ejaculated—“Oh, then pray let me go with you!”