The morrow came, and about the hour Henry had mentioned as that at which his sister would probably receive him Warenne found himself in Charles Street. Henry was alone in the drawing-room when he entered; but in a few minutes Adelaide joined them. She had scarcely recovered from the anxiety occasioned by the melancholy scenes she had so lately witnessed, and was pale and languid, but the snowy whiteness of her brow accorded well with the serious expression of her countenance, and poor Warenne thought he had never seen her look so lovely. She received him kindly; for, satisfied that he loved her, she saw no reason for controlling the natural impulse of her heart; and for some little time the whole party conversed on the events which had taken place without hesitation, if not with cheerfulness. After a while, Henry, who shrewdly suspected the state of his sister’s and of his friend’s affections, found some excuse for quitting the room, and requesting Warenne to await his return left him with Adelaide. The conversation flagged—presently ceased altogether—Warenne, firm to his purpose (but, much as that purpose had already cost him, knowing not until this instant the utter misery he was about to entail upon himself) could not bring himself to speak. Adelaide’s spirits had not regained their usually cheerful flow, and their depression was increased by his manifest uneasiness. The awkwardness of their situation each moment became greater; at length Warenne, making an effort, in a hurried manner uttered some common-place remark on an indifferent subject. Adelaide gave the necessary assent, and again there was silence. He made a second and a third attempt, but with no better success. He now grew confused, and spoke at random upon every topic which presented itself to his over-excited mind, until Adelaide, who could not but recollect the very different manner in which their last interview had concluded, knew not what to think. As she looked, however, on his flushed cheek and unsteady eye that would not meet her’s, a suspicion of the truth flashed across her mind. Could it be that he had formed so unworthy an opinion of her as to conceive that her affections could be influenced by her accession of fortune?—a moment’s reflection assured her that his generous nature would spurn the thought; yet how, since she knew not that her father had almost turned him from his door, was she to interpret his behaviour? She was hurt, and angry with him, and even, as by degrees she obtained a clearer insight into his feelings, could not altogether divest herself of indignation, though she pitied his sufferings. He might, she thought, if he really loved her, sacrifice for her sake his fantastic notions of honour—for so they then seemed to her,—and let her decide for herself whether or not she thought his hand worth acceptance. She became colder and more formal, until at length Warenne, unable to endure any longer her altered looks