“And what will become of her? can Mr. Hervey desert her? she looks like innocence itself--and so young, too! Can he leave her for ever to sorrow, and vice, and infamy?” thought Belinda, as she kept her eyes fixed, in silent anguish, upon the picture of Virginia. “No, he cannot do this: if he could he would be unworthy of me, and I _ought_ to think of him no more. No; he will marry her; and I _must_ think of him no more.” She turned abruptly away from the picture, and she saw Clarence Hervey standing beside her. “What do you think of this picture? is it not beautiful? We are quite enchanted with it; but you do not seem to be struck with it, as we were at the first glance,” said Lady Delacour. “Because,” answered Clarence, gaily, “it is not the first glance I have had at that picture--I admired it yesterday, and admire it to-day.” “But you are tired of admiring it, I see. Well, we shall not force you to be in raptures with it--shall we, Miss Portman? A man may be tired of the most beautiful face in the world, or the most beautiful picture; but really there is so much sweetness, so much innocence, such tender melancholy in this countenance, that, if I were a man, I should inevitably be in love with it, and in love for ever! Such beauty, if it were in nature, would certainly fix the most inconstant man upon earth.” Belinda ventured to take her eyes for an instant from the picture, to see whether Clarence Hervey looked like the most inconstant man upon earth. He was intently gazing upon her; but as soon as she looked round, he suddenly exclaimed, as he turned to the picture--“A heavenly countenance, indeed!--the painter has done justice to the poet.” “Poet!” repeated Lady Delacour: “the man’s in the clouds!” “Pardon me,” said Clarence; “does not M. de St. Pierre deserve to be called a poet? Though he does not write in rhyme, surely he has a poetical imagination.” “Certainly,” said Belinda; and from the composure with which Mr. Hervey now spoke, she was suddenly inclined to believe, or to hope, that all Sir Philip’s story was false. “M. de St. Pierre undoubtedly has a great deal of imagination, and deserves to be called a poet.” “Very likely, good people!” said Lady Delacour; “but what has that to do with the present purpose?” “Nay,” cried Clarence, “your ladyship certainly sees that this is St. Pierre’s Virginia?”