The weather had been rather broken for the last few days, and a dinner at Richmond had carried away the greater part of Lady Desmond's usual guests. Lady Elizabeth Macdonnell, Colonel Dashwood, Lord Effingham, the doctor, and one or two venerable specimens of whist-players, male and female, completed the party. The evening was cold for July, and a small bright wood fire was most acceptable. The whist players were soon absorbed in their rubber, while Kate, Lady Desmond, Lord Effingham and Colonel Dashwood, gathered round the fire. Kate was seated on a low ottoman, Lady Desmond opposite her in an arm chair. Lord Effingham leaning back amongst the cushions of a sofa close to her, with that air of profound quiet and repose, which formed, at times, so admirable a mask to his real sentiments and impressions. Colonel Dashwood stood on the hearth-rug, leaning against the mantel-piece, and occasionally indulging himself in a study of Lady Desmond's profile, when she turned to speak to the Earl. The group was interesting; it bespoke refinement, cultivation, and civilisation in their best form, yet was each member of that little party inflicting or about to inflict suffering on the rest. Little dreaming of such forebodings, Kate sat listening to a discussion between Colonel Dashwood and her cousin, on Kean's acting in Sheridan Knowles's play, of "Love," sometimes losing the thread of the argument in her own thoughts, when she was roused by Lady Desmond's pronouncing her name; she looked up suddenly, ashamed of her inattention, and met Lord Effingham's eyes, which wore an expression that puzzled her, as if they had been fixed on her for a long time. "I beg your pardon Georgy," she said, quickly, "I really did not hear what you said." "It was only to get you to side with me against Colonel Dashwood; but if you were dreaming instead of listening to me, I do not wish for such an ally," said Lady Desmond, laughing. "But," pursued Colonel Dashwood, in continuation of some previous remark, "Love," in real life, is so different from the strange masquerade it wears on the stage." "The most perfect description of love is that which Byron gives in his Corsair. 'None are all evil,' you know the passage," said Lord Effingham, rousing himself. "Oh, yes," cried Kate, eagerly, "it is indeed exquisite, but, 'John Anderson, my Joe John,' conveys the idea of true love a great deal more forcibly to my mind." "Burns," said Lord Effingham, "oh, his detestable jargon is too much for me, and I cannot see the poetry of a ballad, about some stupid old woman, who had been drinking 'usquebaugh,' till she was maudlin, and then proceeds to make love to her 'gude mon,' whose eyes she had probably been scratching out an hour before." "Oh, shame, shame, to sully the real beauty of the fancy by so base a construction!" returned Kate.