“Do not interrupt me. Whatever your meaning has been, the effect of it is what I have described. Now, I will no longer,” continued he, “have an enemy, such as you have been, to heighten her charms, which are too transcendent in their native state. I will hear no more complaints against her, but I will watch her closely myself—and if I find her mind and heart (such as my suspicions have of late whispered) too frivolous for that substantial happiness I look for with an object so beloved, depend upon my word—the marriage shall yet be broken off.” “I depend upon your word; it _will_ then,”—replied Sandford eagerly. “You are unjust, Sir, in saying so before the trial,” replied Lord Elmwood, “and your injustice shall make me more cautious, lest I follow your example.” “But, my Lord——” “My mind is made up, Mr. Sandford,” returned he, interrupting him; “I am no longer engaged to Miss Milner than she shall deserve I should be—but, in my strict observations upon her conduct, I will take care not to wrong her as you have done.” “My Lord, call my observations wrong, when you have reflected upon them as a man, and not as a lover—divest yourself of your passion, and meet me upon equal ground.” “I will meet no one—I will consult no one—my own judgment shall be the judge, and in a few months marry, or—_banish me from her for ever_.” There was something in these last words, in the tone and firmness with which they were delivered, that the heart of Sandford rested upon with content—they bore the symptoms of a menace that would be executed; and he parted from his patron with congratulations upon his wisdom, and with giving him the warmest assurances of his firm reliance on his _word_. Lord Elmwood having come to this resolution, was more composed than he had been for several days before; while the horror of domestic wrangles—a family without subordination—a house without œconomy—in a word, a wife without discretion, had been perpetually present to his mind.