As she pronounced the word _coronet_, she pointed to a coronet set in diamonds on her watch-case, which lay on the table. Then suddenly seizing the watch, she dashed it upon the marble hearth with all her force--“Vile bauble!” cried she; “must I lose my only friend for such a thing as you? Oh, Belinda! do you see that a coronet cannot confer happiness?” “I have seen it long: I pity you from the bottom of my soul,” said Belinda, bursting into tears. “Pity me not. I cannot endure your pity, treacherous woman!” cried Lady Delacour, and she stamped with a look of rage--“most perfidious of women!” “Yes, call me perfidious, treacherous--stamp at me--say, do what you will; I can and will bear it all--all patiently; for I am innocent, and you are mistaken and unhappy,” said Belinda. “You will love me when you return to your senses; then how can I be angry with you?” “Fondle me not,” said Lady Delacour, starting back from Belinda’s caresses: “do not degrade yourself to no purpose--I never more can be your dupe. Your protestations of innocence are wasted on me--I am not so blind as you imagine--dupe as you think me, I have seen much in silence. The whole world, you find, suspects you now. To save your reputation, you want my friendship--you want--” “I want nothing from you, Lady Delacour,” said Belinda. “_You have suspected me long in silence!_ then I have mistaken your character--I can love you no longer. Farewell for ever! Find another--a better friend.” She walked away from Lady Delacour with proud indignation; but, before she reached the door, she recollected her promise to remain with this unfortunate woman. Is a dying woman, in the paroxysm of insane passion, a fit object of indignation? thought Belinda, and she stopped short. “No, Lady Delacour,” cried she, “I will not yield to my humour--I will not listen to my pride. A few words said in the heat of passion shall not make me forget myself or you. You have given me your confidence; I am grateful for it. I cannot, will not desert you: my promise is sacred.” “Your promise!” said Lady Delacour, contemptuously. “I absolve you from your promise. Unless you find it _convenient_ to yourself to remember it, pray let it be forgotten; and if I must die--” At this instant the door opened suddenly, and little Helena came in singing-- “‘Merrily, merrily shall we live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.’ What comes next, Miss Portman?” Lady Delacour dragged her veil across her face, and rushed out of the room. “What is the matter?--Is mamma ill?” “Yes, my dear,” said Belinda. But at this instant she heard the sound of Lord Delacour’s voice upon the stairs; she broke from the little girl, and with the greatest precipitation retreated to her own room. She had not been alone above an hour before Marriott knocked at the door.