Lord Montreville was sitting before a table, covered with papers and books, with a novel open before him, of which he had not turned over a leaf for at least thirty-six minutes. He was thinking how innocent Lucy had been when first he had married her; he was lamenting the total change which he believed had taken place in her; he was wondering how far she had become acquainted with his connexion with Alicia Mowbray, and he confessed to himself that he could date the alteration which he had perceived in her, from the period when she had an opportunity of perceiving that fatal letter. That she had read it, was now evident, from her taunting allusion the preceding day. He was persuading himself that pique and jealousy might have driven her to flirtation, and he did not feel so chilled, so awed, so daunted, as when her measured, cold, though dutiful behaviour had made him painfully aware of his own errors, and of her merits. Neither was he so indignant, as when, in his anger, he attributed the whole change to mere indifference to himself, and love of the admiration of others. As Lucy approached him, her cheek was slightly flushed; her clear blue eyes looked full at him, with a gentle but determined expression which seemed to say, I have no thought which shuns the light, inquire, and my heart shall be laid open before you. “Lord Montreville,” she said, “you were angry with me yesterday for seeing so much of your cousin, Mr. Delville. You have asked him to dine here to-day, and I want to know how you would wish me to conduct myself towards him. I wish to be guided by you. I wish to see those whom you approve, and I wish to see no more of them than you approve. I value my own good name as much as you can do; and although I yesterday felt very angry at the manner in which you took me to task, my anger has subsided, and I only want to do what is right. You will find me willing and anxious to follow your directions, whatever they may be.” Lord Montreville was taken by surprise. He could not look in her face and refuse to believe in the perfect candour and sincerity of her address to him. Her manner was neither humble, as if she had any thing to be forgiven; nor was it bold, as if she meant to brave him. The train of his own thoughts had rather tended to soften than to inflame him, and simple truth generally carries conviction with it. “Lucy! I own I was angry yesterday, and can you assure me I had no cause for being so?” “None that I know of.” “Answer me honestly,—Has not Lionel Delville made love to you?”