If at first Lord Montreville could not work himself up to a full confession in all contrition and humility, still less could he do so, when the soft, the mild, the timid Lucy, had assumed a certain calm, composed, and self-possessed manner, which repelled, rather than invited confidence. CHAPTER XIII. Mais ne savez-vous pas que notre âme est encore plus superbe que vertueuse, plus glorieuse qu’honnête, et par conséquent plus délicate sur les intérêts de sa vanité que sur ceux de son véritable honneur.—_Marivaux._ In the mean time, Lord Montreville had completely recovered his health. They left Caërwhwyddwth Castle, and established themselves at Ashdale Park for the winter. Their house was soon full, and Lucy tried to drown all sense of her cares in the succession of company, with which she was as desirous as Lord Montreville could be, to keep their house constantly replenished. They each equally dreaded finding themselves alone with the other. The breakfast hour was late; before luncheon the excursion for the day was organised; after luncheon the preconcerted ride or drive took place; the company was constantly changing, and Lady Montreville’s presence was frequently required in the drawing-room, to speed the parting, or to greet the coming guest. It was only in the nursery that the face which in society she had learned to dress in smiles, relaxed into an expression of languor and joylessness, which astonished and distressed the faithful Milly. When the child’s gambols and caresses called forth a smile, it was so melancholy a one, that Milly’s eyes would often fill with tears as she looked upon her lady. One day, when among the foolish questions with which poor little children are tormented, Lucy said to him, “Charlie loves mamma, does not he?” He answered, “Me love papa.” The boy meant nothing, but the words fell on Lucy’s heart, as if they doomed her to utter lonelessness and lovelessness! as if her own child cared not for her! and she burst into a passionate flood of tears, which alarmed and confounded Milly. “La, my lady! sure you are not crying for that? Why you would not but have the dear babe love his own papa?” “I do not believe any body or any thing loves me in this world—except you, Milly;” and Lucy’s sobs redoubled. “Oh, my lady! how can you speak so? And to think of my lord, how he used to be asking and calling for you when he was so ill, and that’s the time when people call for them as they really love best; and ’twas then my lord could not bear you out of his sight, though may be, now he is well, he takes pleasure in the other gentlefolks too.”