Conscious that this letter was not fit for her ladyship to see, Belinda neither offered to show it to her, nor attempted any apology for her reserve and embarrassment, but hastily began to read the message relative to Mrs. Luttridge; her voice gaining confidence as she went on, as she observed that she had fixed Lady Delacour’s attention, who now sat listening to her, calm and motionless. But when Miss Portman came to the words, “Do not forget to tell Lady D ----, that I have a charming anecdote for her about another _friend_ of hers, who lately went over to the enemy,” her ladyship exclaimed with great vehemence, “_Friend_!--Harriot Freke!--Yes, like all other friends--Harriot Freke!--What was she compared to? ‘Tis too much for me--too much!” and she put her hand to her head. “Compose yourself, my dear _friend_,” said Belinda, in a calm, gentle tone; and she went toward her with an intention of soothing her by caresses; but, at her approach, Lady Delacour pushed the table on which she had been writing from her with violence, started up, flung back the veil which fell over her face as she rose, and darted upon Belinda a look, which fixed her to the spot where she stood. It said, “Come not a step nearer, at your peril!” Belinda’s blood ran cold--she had no longer any doubt that this was insanity. She shut the penknife which lay upon the table, and put it into her pocket. “Cowardly creature!” cried Lady Delacour, and her countenance changed to the expression of ineffable contempt; “what is it you fear?” “That you should injure yourself. Sit down--for Heaven’s sake listen to me, to your friend, to Belinda!” “My friend! my Belinda!” cried Lady Delacour, and she turned from her, and walked away some steps in silence; then suddenly clasping her hands, she raised her eyes to heaven with a fervent but wild expression of devotion, and exclaimed, “Great God of heaven, my punishment is just! the death of Lawless is avenged. May the present agony of my soul expiate my folly! Of guilt--deliberate guilt--of hypocrisy--treachery--I have not--oh, never may I have--to repent!” She paused--her eyes involuntarily returned upon Belinda. “Oh, Belinda! You, whom I have so loved--so trusted!” The tears rolled fast down her painted cheeks; she wiped them hastily away, and so roughly, that her face became a strange and ghastly spectacle. Unconscious of her disordered appearance, she rushed past Belinda, who vainly attempted to stop her, threw up the sash, and stretching herself far out of the window, gasped for breath. Miss Portman drew her back, and closed the window, saying, “The rouge is all off your face, my dear Lady Delacour; you are not fit to be seen. Sit down upon this sofa, and I will ring for Marriott, and get some fresh rouge. Look at your face in this glass--you see--”