Piqued at Mrs. Seymour’s manner, Calantha appealed to her husband: “and shall I give up my friend, because she has none but me to defend her? Shall my friendship—” “Alas Calantha,” said Lord Avondale, “you treat the noblest sentiment of the heart as a toy which is to be purchased to-day, and thrown aside to-morrow. Believe me, friendship is not to be acquired by a few morning visits; nor is it to be found, though I fear it is too often lost, in the crowd of fashion.” He spoke this mournfully. The ready tears trembled in Lady Avondale’s eyes.—“I will see no more of her, if it gives you pain. I will never visit her again.”—Lord Avondale could not bear to grieve her. A servant entered with a note, whilst they were yet together:—a crimson blush suffused Calantha’s cheeks. “I see” said Lord Avondale smiling, as if fearful of losing her confidence,—“it is from your new friend.” It was so:—she had sent her carriage with a request that Lady Avondale would immediately call upon her.—She hesitated; looked eagerly for a permission, which was too soon granted; and, without making any excuse, for she had not yet learned the art, she hastened from the lowering eyes of the deeply offended Mrs. Seymour. CHAPTER XXIV. Long as she had now been known to Lady Mandeville, she had only once before seen her at her own house. She now found her reclining upon a sofa in an apartment more prettily than magnificently ornamented:—a shawl was thrown gracefully over her; and her hair, in dark auburn ringlets, half concealed her languishing blue eyes. Lady Mandeville was at this time no longer in the very prime of youth. Her air and manner had not that high polish, which at first sight seduces and wins. On the contrary, it rather was the reverse, and a certain pedantry took off much from the charm of her conversation. Yet something there was about her, which attracted. She seemed sincere too, and had less of that studied self-satisfied air, than most women, who affect to be well informed. “I am glad you are come, my loved friend,” she said, extending her hand to Calantha when she entered. “I have just been translating an Ode of Pindar:—his poetry is sublime: it nerves the soul and raises it above vulgar cares;—but you do not understand Greek, do you? Indeed to you it would be a superfluous acquisition, married as you are, and to such a man.”—Lady Avondale, rather puzzled as to the connection between domestic happiness, and the Greek language, listened for further explanation;—but with a deep sigh, her lovely acquaintance talked of her fate, and referred to scenes and times long passed, and utterly unknown to her. She talked much too of injured innocence, of the malignity of the world, of her contempt for her own sex, and of the superiority of men.