It chanced one day, that, when seated at dinner, by Mrs. Seymour, to whom he paid no little attention, he enquired of her concerning Mac Allain, who waited upon that occasion behind the Duke’s chair. “Why looks he so miserable?” he said. “Why turn his eyes so incessantly towards Mr. Buchanan?” Mrs. Seymour hesitated, as if fearing to allude to a transaction which she never thought of without horror and dislike; but she no sooner pronounced the name of Mac Allain, than Lord Glenarvon’s countenance altered: he started! and, watching Buchanan with a look of loathing antipathy, exhibited such a variety of malevolent passions, in the space of a few moments, that Sophia, who sat near Calantha on the opposite side of the table, asked her, as she read countenances so well, to tell her what her new friend’s expressed at that instant. She raised her eyes; but met Glenarvon’s. He saw; he was the object of attention: he smiled; and, the sweetness of that smile alone being considered: “I know not,” she said, in some confusion; “but this I believe, that the hand of Heaven never impressed on man a countenance so beautiful, so glorious!” “Calantha!” said Sophia, looking at her. Calantha sighed. “What is it even so?—Heaven defend us!” somewhat confused. Calantha turned to the Count Gondimar; and, talking with affected spirits, soon appeared to have forgotten both the smile and the sigh. “You once, when in London, gave me permission to warn you,” said the Count, who observed every thing that was passing, “when I thought you in danger. Now,” continued he,—“now is the moment. It was not when dancing with Mr. Clarendon, or playing the coquette with Buchanan and the Duke of Myrtlegrove, that I trembled for you. Lord Avondale was still dear, even in those days—but now—O! the inconstancy of the human heart. You, even you, are changed.” “Not me,” she replied; “but alas! that time is arrived which you predicted: he cares no more for me; but I can never forget him. See,” she continued, “how utterly indifferent he appears, yet I would die for him.” “That will be of little service: you will prove his ruin and misery. Mark my words, Lady Avondale; and, when too late, remember what I have dared to say!” “Every woman complains,” she continued, smiling, “therefore, let me prove an exception. I have no reproaches to make Lord Avondale; and, except in your suspicious mind, there is no evil to apprehend.” “Tell me, candidly; if the trial were made, if the hour of temptation were to come, could you, do you think—could you have strength and courage to resist it?” “Could I! Can you ask! It will not be accounted presumption to affirm, that I feel secure. But possibly this arises from my conviction, that there can be no temptation for me: I love my husband: there is no merit then in being true to what we love.”