Viviani smiled in scorn. “Gondimar, this Calantha, this fair and spotless flower is a woman, and, as such, she must be frail. Besides, I know that she is so in a thousand instances, though as yet too innocent to see her danger, or to mistrust our sex. You have often described to me her excessive fondness for music. What think you of it? She does not hear it as the Miss Seymours hear it, you tell me. She does not admire it, as one of the lovers of harmony might. Oh no; she feels it in her very soul—it awakens every sensibility—it plays upon the chords of her overheated imagination—it fills her eyes with tears, and strengthens and excites the passions, which it appears to soothe and to compose. There is nothing which the power of music cannot effect, when it is thus heard. Your Calantha feels it to a dangerous excess. Let me see her, and I will sing to her till the chaste veil of every modest feeling is thrown aside, and thoughts of fire dart into her bosom, and loosen every principle therein. Oh I would trust every thing to the power of melody. Calantha is fond of dancing too, I hear; and dancing is the order of the night. This is well; and once, though she saw me not amidst the crowd, I marked her, as she lightly bounded the gayest in the circle, from the mere excess of the animal spirits of youth. Now Miss Seymour dances; but it is with modest dignity: her sister Frances dances also, and it is with much skill and grace, her sidelong glance searching for admiration as she passes by; but Calantha sees not, thinks not, when she dances:—her heart beats with joyous pleasure—her countenance irradiates—and almost wild with delight, she forgets every thing but the moment she enjoys. Let Viviani but for one night be her partner, and you shall see how pure is this Calantha. She boasts too of the most unclouded happiness, you tell me, and of the most perfect state of security and bliss; they who soar above others, on the wings of romance, will fall. Oh surely they will fall. Let her but continue in her present illusion a few short years—let her but take the common chances of the life she will be called upon to lead; and you, or I, or any man, may possess her affections, nor boast greatly of the conquest. In one word, she is now in London. Give but Viviani one opportunity of beholding her: it is all I ask.” Gondimar listened to his young friend with regret. “There are women enough, Viviani,” he said mournfully; “spare this one. I have an interest in her safety.”—“I shall not seek her,” replied Viviani proudly: “please your own fancy: I care not for these triflers—not I.” CHAPTER XXIII.