“Why, do you doubt what I assert?” said Henry, angrily, and at the same time putting his hand in his pocket, to feign an intention of shewing a letter he had never received. There was one in his pocket, however, which he would have been very sorry to have shewn. “I like the evidence of my own senses best,” replied Frances, holding out her hand. “On second thoughts,” said Henry, “I shall not shew the letter. Indeed, I don’t think it would be honourable in me to do so. By the bye,” he added, “I took a couple of papers from the man at the same time. I forgot them, I believe, on the writing-table in the library. The marriage will be in the ‘Morning-Post,’ of course.” “My dear, what could you have been doing to forget the papers? I thought the servants were airing them,” said Mrs. Montgomery. Frances flew for them. Julia was, or seemed to be, very busily engaged about something at her portfolio; and took wonderfully little interest in the discussion, considering the regard (in the way of friendship, we mean) which she had always professed to entertain for Edmund. Frances returned with the papers. The marriage of Lady Susan Morven to the Marquis of H. certainly did appear printed in legible characters. Frances herself read it aloud. Various comments were made. Mrs. Montgomery expressed herself certain that Lord L. would be much dissatisfied with Julia for having refused so splendid a match. “I never said I refused him, ma’am,” faltered out Julia, in a timid voice. “He told your uncle you did, my dear,” said Mrs. Montgomery. “Did I not tell you, ma’am, that my fair cousin here would choose for herself?” observed Henry with emphasis: and going towards Julia, he leaned on the back of her chair with well-feigned tenderness of manner. Mrs. Montgomery looked with a surprised and inquiring expression at her granddaughter, who coloured to excess; for she thought of Edmund, and was also painfully aware of the false light in which Henry wished her to appear. The blush of consciousness was deepened by indignation, not the less strong that it was suppressed. She could not now say, as she had done when a child, “No, I hate Henry, and I love Edmund!” He knew she could not, and she knew that on this knowledge he presumed. A look, indeed, of resentment, she attempted. Mrs. Montgomery saw it, thought it one of intelligence, and felt alarmed. Frances, who had turned over the paper two or three times, now exclaimed, “Oh, here is something about Edmund’s friend, Lord Fitz-Ullin; and she began to read aloud as follows:—