Lady Erpingham saw, with secret delight, what she believed to be a growing attachment. She loved Constance for herself, and Godolphin for his father’s memory. She thought again and again what a charming couple they would make--so handsome--so gifted: and if Prudence whispered also--so poor, the kind Countess remembered, that she herself had saved from her ample jointure a sum which she had always designed as a dowry for Constance, and which, should Godolphin be the bridegroom, she felt she should have a tenfold pleasure in bestowing. With this fortune, which would place them, at least, in independence, she united in her kindly imagination the importance which she imagined Godolphin’s talents must ultimately acquire; and for which, in her aristocratic estimation, she conceived the senate the only legitimate sphere. She said, she hinted, nothing to Constance; but she suffered nature, youth, and companionship to exercise their sway. And the complexion of Godolphin’s feelings for Constance Vernon did indeed resemble love--was love itself, though rather love in its romance than its reality. What were those of Constance for him? She knew not herself at that time. Had she been of a character one shade less ambitious, or less powerful, they would have been love, and love of no common character. But within her musing, and self-possessed, and singularly constituted mind, there was, as yet, a limit to every sentiment, a chain to the wings of every thought, save those of one order; and that order was not of love. There was a marked difference, in all respects, between the characters of the two; and it was singular enough, that that of the woman was the less romantic, and composed of the simpler materials. A volume of Wordsworth’s most exquisite poetry had then just appeared. “Is not this wonderful?” said Godolphin, reciting some of those lofty, but refining thoughts which characterise the Pastor of modern poets. Constance shook her head. “What! you do not admire it?” “I do not understand it.” “What poetry do you admire?” “This.” It was Pope’s translation of the Iliad. “Yes, yes, to be sure,” said Godolphin, a little vexed; “we all admire this in its way: but what else?” Constance pointed to a passage in the Palamon and Arcite of Dryden. Godolphin threw down his Wordsworth. “You take an ungenerous advantage of me,” said he. “Tell me something you admire, which, at least, I may have the privilege of disputing,--something that you think generally neglected.” “I admire few things that are generally neglected,” answered Constance, with her bright and proud smile. “Fame gives its stamp to all metal that is of intrinsic value.” This answer was quite characteristic of Constance: she worshipped fame far more than the genius which won it. “Well, then,” said Godolphin, “let us see now if we can come to a compromise of sentiment;” and he took up the Comus of Milton.