"So much the better," muttered the old lady, who seemed, however, to be speaking aside, so no one took any notice of her. She rose when Ellen left the room, and returned her graceful courtesy with a not ungracious bend, and bade her good morning with an air more conciliating than she had shewn on her entrance. On relating the particulars of this visit to her Lord, Lady St. Aubyn found there was no doubt the old lady she had seen was Lady Juliana Mordaunt: he made her repeat the conversation that had passed, and when she told him that the old lady had made use of the disrespectful term, "_this young person_," in speaking of her, he coloured excessively, and execrating his aunt's pride and impertinence, told his wife she ought to have quitted the room immediately. He smiled when Ellen mentioned Lady Juliana's attention and kindness on her fainting, and said, "That is so like her: her warm heart thaws the ice of her manners when she sees any one ill or distrest." When Ellen repeated the mention which had been made in the course of conversation of the late Lady St. Aubyn, he changed colour, and said, "Well, Ellen, were you not surprized? You did not, I believe, know--you never heard I had been married before." "Pardon me, my Lord, I was previously acquainted with that circumstance." "You knew it!--from whom? Where did you hear it?" "From Miss Cecil, from Miss Alton, accidentally." "And were they not astonished you had not heard it before?" "I had heard it before from Mrs. Bayfield, the day after we went to Castle St. Aubyn." "From Mrs. Bayfield--she told you of it?--She told you--What, Ellen, did she tell you more?" "Nothing, my Lord, but that your lady was young and beautiful, and died abroad." "And why did you never mention the subject before? Why this reserve, my love?" "Because I thought as you never told me of it yourself, you would rather the subject were not mentioned." "Dear creature!" said St. Aubyn, sighing. "I have always had reason to admire the excellence of your judgment and the delicacy of your sentiments. Believe me, Ellen, I withhold from you only those things which I think will give you pain to know. Our acquaintance commenced under such singular circumstances, that I had hardly opportunity to tell you this before we were married, and in fact, that name, that recollection is so hateful to me, is connected with so many painful ideas, that I cannot bear to recall, to dwell upon it! Why that tear, my love--are you dissatisfied with me?" "No, dearest St. Aubyn: whatever you do, appears to me wisest and best to be done--but I was pitying--I was thinking----" "Whom were you pitying?--Of what was my Ellen thinking?" "Pitying a woman, who, having once possessed your love, lost it so entirely, as to render her very name unpleasant to you. Thinking--ah, heaven!--thinking--should such ever be _my_ lot!" She paused, struggling with a sudden gush of tears, and sobs which almost choaked her.