It was now late: very little else passed: they returned home, where they were received with considerable coldness. But Lady Mandeville, perceiving the state of suffering to which Calantha had reduced herself, generously came forward to sooth and to assist her. She appeared really attached to her; and at this time more even than at any former period, shewed her sincere and disinterested friendship. And yet she was the person Mrs. Seymour distrusted; and even Glenarvon spoke of her with asperity and disdain. “Adelaide! though an envious world may forsake thee, a grateful friend shall stand firm by thee to the last.” Such were Calantha’s thoughts, as Lady Mandeville, languidly throwing her rounded arm over her, pressed her to her bosom, and sighed to think of the misery she was preparing for herself.—“Yet, when I see how he loves thee,” she continued, “I cannot blame, I will not judge thee.” That evening Glenarvon wrote to Lady Avondale. His letter repeated all he had before said; it was ardent: it was unguarded. She had scarce received it, scarce placed it in her bosom, when Lady Margaret attacked her. “You think,” she said, “that you have made a conquest. Silly child, Lord Glenarvon is merely playing upon your vanity.” Lady Augusta whispered congratulations: Sophia hoped she was pleased with her morning walk; Sir Everard coldly asked her if she had beheld his niece, and then, with a sneer at Lord Glenarvon, said it was vastly pleasant to depend upon certain people’s promises. All this time Calantha felt not grieved: Glenarvon had said he loved her: it was enough: his attachment was worth all else beside; and Lord Avondale’s increasing neglect and coldness steeled her heart against the crime of inconstancy. Before supper, Glenarvon took an opportunity of speaking to her. “If you accept my friendship,” he said frowning, “I must be obeyed:—you will find me a master—a tyrant perhaps; not a slave. If I once love, it is with fervor—with madness. I must have no trifling, no rivals. The being I worship must be pure even in thought; and, if I spare her, think not that it is to let others approach her. No, Lady Avondale; not even what appears most innocent to you, shall be endured by me. I shall be jealous of every look, word, thought. There must be no shaking of hands, no wearing of chains but such as I bestow, and you must write all you think and feel without reserve or fear. Now, mark me, fly if you have the power; but if you remain, you already know your fate.”