Count Gondimar had returned from Italy, and was now at the castle. He had brought letters from Viviani to Lady Margaret, who said at once when she had read them: “You wish to deceive me. These letters are dated from Naples, but our young friend is here—here even in Ireland.” “And his vengeance,” said Gondimar, laughing. Lady Margaret affected, also, to smile:—“Oh, his vengeance!” she said, “is yet to come:—save me from his love now; and I will defend myself from the rest.” Lord and Lady Dartford were, likewise, at the castle. He appeared cold and careless. In his pretty inoffensive wife, he found not those attractions, those splendid talents which had enthralled him for so long a period with Lady Margaret. He still pined for the tyranny of caprice, provided the load of responsibility and exertion were removed: and the price of his slavery were that exemption from the petty cares of life, for which he felt an insurmountable disgust. From indolence, it seemed he had fallen again into the snare which was spread for his ruin; and having, a second time, submitted to the chain, he had lost all desire of ever again attempting to shake it. Lady Dartford, too innocent to see her danger, lamented the coldness of her husband, and loved him with even fonder attachment, for the doubt she entertained of his affection. She was spoken of by all with pity and praise: her conduct was considered as examplary, when, in fact, it was purely the effect of nature; for every hope of her heart was centered in one object, and the fervent constancy of her affection arose, perhaps, in some measure from the uncertainty of its being returned. Lady Margaret continued to see the young Count Viviani in secret:—he had now been in Ireland for some months:—his manner to Lady Margaret was, however, totally changed:—he had accosted her, upon his arrival, with the most distant civility, the most studied coldness:—he affected ever that marked indifference which proved him but still too much in her power; and, while his heart burned with the scorching flames of jealousy, he waited for some opportunity of venting his desire of vengeance, which, from its magnitude, might effectually satisfy his rage. Lord Dartford saw him once as he was retiring in haste from Lady Margaret’s apartment; and he enquired of her eagerly who he was.—“A young musician, a friend of Gondimar’s, an Italian,” said Lady Margaret. “He has not an Italian countenance,” said Lord Dartford, thoughtfully. “I wish I had not seen him:—it is a face which makes a deep and even an unpleasant impression. You call him Viviani, do you?—whilst I live, I never shall forget Viviani!”