Although the sudden and unannounced arrival of Don Felix di Corva, described in a former chapter, had overwhelmed Sir Edgar de Neville with surprise, that cavalier quickly recovered himself, and hastened to bid his relative welcome. Evaline, however, continued discomposed, and met the greeting of Don Felix with undisguised coldness. The Spaniard affected to be insensible of her resentment; but it did, notwithstanding, mortify him exceedingly, and he determined to avenge himself on her at the very earliest opportunity. Such an opportunity was not to be afforded him that evening. Evaline, distracted with her anxieties, which the return of Don Felix had greatly augmented, shortly announced herself to be too indisposed to remain up longer, and retired to her chamber. Don Felix was himself much fatigued, and, when Evaline had retired, he professed to have no inducement to stay up further, and also betook himself to his dormitory. But, fatigued as he was, it was more to pursue reflection, than to seek repose, which he had pretended to be his aim, that he thus withdrew. When he laid his head on his pillow, he sought rather to conjure up the past, with all the remembrances that a malignant disposition could draw from it, than to recruit himself for the morrow. He could not say, in his heart, that Evaline had at any time loved him; but there was a time when she had not held him in dislike. Who had induced her to alter her sentiments? There, indeed, was the touch-stone, which searched and proved his nature! The Spaniard was not, under ordinary circumstances, what would be called a bad man; and if no strong influences had been at work upon him, he might have passed through life, in its even and untroubled channels, without developing a single evil quality. Still he was, in reality, possessed of a quality fruitful in evil, from which springs a host of bad and furious passions, and which is generally called by the name of “self-conceit.” He thought he was a _nonpareil_; and so long as, by the run of circumstances, he could appear in that character, he was perfectly inoffensive, and rather disposed to serve a friend, than to crush a foe. But the man that, even involuntarily, dared to appear in his sphere to greater advantage than himself, did him an injury that he would never forgive. Then, on being closely viewed, the quality that had appeared more deserving of contempt, than worthy of fear, displayed its genuine and native hideousness. It was bared to the root, and, in its naked colours, showed itself to be fraught with “envy, malice, and all uncharitableness.”