They were standing in the library during this discourse. Lady Avondale entered now; Lord Glenarvon approached her. They were for a few moments alone:—he lent over her; she held a book in her hand; he read a few lines: it is not possible to describe how well he read them. The poetry he read was beautiful as his own: it affected him. He read more; he became animated; Calantha looked up; he fixed his eyes on hers; he forgot the poem; his hand touched hers, as he replaced the book before her; she drew away her hand; he took it and put it to his lips. “Pardon me,” he said, “I am miserable: but I will never injure you. Fly me, Lady Avondale: I deserve not either interest or regard; and to look upon me is in itself pollution to one like you.” He then said a few words expressive of his admiration for her husband:—“He is as superior to me,” he said, “as Hyperion to a satyr:—and you love him, do you not?” continued he, smiling. “Can you ask?” “He seems most attached, too, to you.” “Far, far more than I deserve.” “I can never love again,” said Glenarvon, still holding her hand: “never. There will be no danger in my friendship,” he said after a moment’s thought: “none; for I am cold as the grave—as death; and all here,” he said pressing her hand upon his heart, “is chilled, lost, absorbed. They will speak ill of me,” he continued rather mournfully; “and you will learn to hate me.” “I! never, never. I will defend you, if abused; I will hate those who hate you; I—” He smiled: “How infatuated you are,” he said, “poor little thing that seeks to destroy itself. Have you not then heard what I have done?” “I have heard much” said Calantha, “but I know—I feel it is false.” “It is all too true,” said Lord Glenarvon carelessly:—“all quite true; and there is much worse yet:”—“But it is no matter,” he continued; “the never dying worm feeds upon my heart: I am like death, Lady Avondale; and all beneath is seared.” Whilst the conscience wakes, and the blush of confused and trembling guilt yet varies the complexion, the sin is not of long standing, or of deep root; but when the mind seeks to disguise from itself its danger,—when, playing upon the edge of the precipice, the victim willingly deludes itself, and appears hard and callous to every admonitory caution, then is the moment for alarm; and that moment now appeared to realize Calantha’s fears.