Enraged at this answer, and sickening at his conceit, Lady Margaret sent immediately to entreat, or rather to command, his return. In the mean time, she talked much to Calantha of his sufferings and despair; and soon perceiving how greatly the circumstance of Lord Avondale’s consenting to part from her had wounded her feelings, and how perpetually she recurred to it, she endeavoured, by the most artful interpretations of his conduct, to lower him in her estimation. Sarcastically contrasting his coldness with Buchanan’s enthusiasm: “Your lover,” said she, “is, without doubt, most disinterested!—His eager desire for your happiness is shown in every part of his conduct!—Such warmth—such delicacy! How happy would a girl like my Calantha be with such a husband!—What filial piety distinguishes the whole of his behaviour!—Obey your father, is the burthen of his creed! He seems even to dread the warmth of your affection!—He trembles when he thinks into what imprudence it may carry you!—Why, he is a perfect model, is he not? But let me ask you, my dear niece, is love, according to your notions and feelings, thus cool and considerate?—does it pause to weigh right and duty?—is it so very rational and contemplative?...” “Yes,” replied Calantha, somewhat piqued. “Virtuous love can make sacrifices; but, when love is united with guilt, it becomes selfish and thinks only of the present moment.” “And how, my little philosopher, did you acquire so prematurely this wonderful insight into the nature of love?” “By feeling it,” said Calantha, triumphantly; “and by comparing my own feelings with what I have heard called by that name in others.”