On quitting Castle Delaval, Lord Glenarvon went as he had promised, to Mr. Monmouth’s seat in Wales, by name, Mortanville Priory. There, in a large and brilliant society, he soon forgot Calantha. Lady Augusta rallied him for his caprice; Lady Mandeville sought to obtain his confidence: tears and reproaches are ever irksome; and the confidence that had once been placed in a former mistress, now suddenly withdrawn, was wholly given to her. A petitioner is at all times intrusive; and sorrow at a distance but serves to encrease the coldness and inconstancy it upbraids. The contrast is great between smiling and triumphant beauty, and remorse, misery and disgrace. And, if every reason here enumerated were insufficient, to account for a lover’s inconstancy, it is enough in one word to say, that Lady Avondale was absent; for Lord Glenarvon was of a disposition to attend so wholly to those, in whose presence he took delight, that he failed to remember those to whom he had once been attached; so that like the wheels of a watch, the chains of his affections might be said to unwind from the absent, in proportion as they twined themselves around the favourite of the moment; and being extreme in all things, he could not sufficiently devote himself to the one, without taking from the other all that he had given. ’Twere vain to detail the petty instances of barbarity he made use of. The web was fine enough, and wove with a skilful hand. He even consulted with Lady Mandeville in what manner to make his inhuman triumph more poignant—more galling; and when he heard that Calantha was irritated even unto madness, and grieved almost unto death, he only mocked at her for her folly, and despised her for her still remaining attachment to himself. “Indeed she is ill,” said Sophia, in answer to his insulting enquiry, soon after her arrival at Mortanville Priory. “She is even dangerously ill.” “And pray may I ask of what malady?” he replied, with a smile of scorn. “Of one, Lord Glenarvon,” she answered with equal irony, “which never will endanger your health—of a broken heart.” He laughed. “Of deep remorse,” she continued. “And no regret?” said he, looking archly at her. “Do not jest,” she retorted: “the misery which an unhallowed attachment must in itself inflict, is sufficient, I should think, without adding derision to every other feeling.” “Does Miss Seymour speak from experience or conjecture?”