“From my own judgment and knowledge of your character, in which I hope--I am not--I cannot be mistaken,” said Belinda, looking at her with a mixture of doubt and astonishment. “No--you calculated admirably--‘twas the best, the only thing you could do. Only,” said her ladyship, falling back in her chair with an hysteric laugh, “only the blunder of Champfort, and the entrance of my Lord Delacour, and the hammercloth with the orange and black fringe--forgive me, my dear; for the soul of me I can’t help laughing--it was rather unlucky; so awkward, such a contretemps! But you,” added she, wiping her eyes, as if recovering from laughter, “you have such admirable presence of mind, nothing disconcerts you! You are equal to all situations, and stand in no need of such long letters of advice from your aunt Stanhope,” pointing to the two folio sheets which lay at Belinda’s feet. The rapid, unconnected manner in which Lady Delacour spoke, the hurry of her motions, the quick, suspicious, angry glances of her eye, her laugh, her unintelligible words, all conspired at this moment to give Belinda the idea that her intellects were suddenly disordered. She was so firmly persuaded of her ladyship’s utter indifference to Lord Delacour, that she never conceived the possibility of her being actuated by the passion of jealousy--by the jealousy of power--a species of jealousy which she had never felt, and could not comprehend. But she had sometimes seen Lady Delacour in starts of passion that seemed to border on insanity, and the idea of her losing all command of her reason now struck Belinda with irresistible force. She felt the necessity of preserving her own composure; and with all the calmness that she could assume, she took up her aunt Stanhope’s letter, and looked for the passage in which Mrs. Luttridge and Harriot Freke were mentioned. If I can turn the course of Lady Delacour’s mind, thought she, or catch her attention, perhaps she will recover herself. “Here is a message to you, my dear Lady Delacour,” cried she, “from my aunt Stanhope, about--about Mrs. Luttridge.” Miss Portman’s hand trembled as she turned over the pages of the letter. “I am all attention,” said Lady Delacour, with a composed voice; “only take care, don’t make a mistake: I’m in no hurry; don’t read any thing Mrs. Stanhope might not wish. It is dangerous to garble letters, almost as dangerous as to snatch them out of a friend’s hand, as I once did, you know--but you need not now be under the least alarm.”