The admiration for the young enthusiast was checked by the extreme disgust her shameless ill conduct had occasioned. The tears, too, of Sir Everard, who was present, and audibly called upon his cruel ungrateful niece, extorted a stronger feeling of sympathy than her lawless and guilty love. She retired the moment she had ended her song, and the commotion her presence had excited subsided with her departure. The heiress of Delaval, decked in splendid jewels, had not lost by comparison with the deserted Elinor. She was the reigning favourite of the moment: every one observed it, and smiled upon her the more on that account. To be the favourite of the favoured was too much. The adulation paid to her during the evening; and the caresses lavished upon her had possibly turned a wiser head than her’s; but alas! a deeper interest employed her thoughts, and Glenarvon’s attention was her sole object. Calantha had felt agitated and serious during Miss St. Clare’s performance. Lord Glenarvon had conversed with his customary ease; yet something had wounded her. Perhaps she saw, in the gaze of strangers, that this extreme and sudden intimacy was observed; or possibly her heart reproached her. She felt that not vanity alone, nor even enthusiasm, was the cause of her present emotion. She knew not, nor could imagine the cause; but, with seeming inconsistency, after refusing positively to dance, she sent for Buchanan and joined in that delectable amusement; and, as if the desire of exercise had superseded every other, she danced on with an energy and perseverance, which excited the warmest approbation in all. “What spirits Lady Avondale has!” said one. “How charming she is!” cried another. She herself only sighed. “Have you ever read a tragedy of Ford’s?” whispered Lady Augusta to Calantha, as soon as she had ceased to exhibit—“a tragedy entitled _The Broken Heart_.” “No,” she replied, half vexed, half offended. “At this moment you put me vastly in mind of it. You look most woefully. Come, tell me truly, is not your heart in torture? and, like your namesake Calantha, while lightly dancing the gayest in the ring, has not the shaft already been struck, and shall you not die ere you attain the goal?” She indeed felt nearly ready to do so; and fanning herself excessively, declared, that it was dreadfully hot—that she should absolutely expire of the heat: yet while talking and laughing with those who surrounded her, her eye looked cautiously round, eager to behold the resentment and expected frowns of him whom she had sought to offend; but there was no frown on Lord Glenarvon’s brow—no look of resentment.