“Excuse me,” interrupted Belinda; “Lady Delacour was once my friend, and I do not like to make a comparison so much to her disadvantage. I have never seen any woman who would not suffer by a comparison with Lady Anne Percival.” “I have been more fortunate, I _have_ seen one--one equally worthy of esteem--admiration--love.” Mr. Vincent’s voice faltered in pronouncing the word love; yet Belinda, prepossessed by the idea that he was attached to some creole lady, simply answered, without looking up from her drawing, “You are indeed very fortunate--peculiarly fortunate. Are the West-Indian ladies----” “West-Indian ladies!” interrupted Mr. Vincent. “Surely, Miss Portman cannot imagine that I am at this instant thinking of any West-Indian lady!” Belinda looked up with an air of surprise. “Charming Miss Portman,” continued he, “I have learnt to admire _European beauty, European excellence_! I have acquired new ideas of the female character--ideas--feelings that must henceforward render me exquisitely happy or exquisitely miserable.” Miss Portman had been too often called “_charming_” to be much startled or delighted by the sound: the word would have passed by unnoticed, but there was something so impassioned in Mr. Vincent’s manner, that she could no longer mistake it for common gallantry, and she was in evident confusion. Now for the first time the idea of Mr. Vincent as a lover came into her mind: the next instant she accused herself of vanity, and dreaded that he should read her thoughts. “Exquisitely miserable!” said she, in a tone of raillery: “I should not suppose, from what I have seen of Mr. Vincent, that any thing could make him exquisitely miserable.” “Then you do not know my character--you do not know my heart: it is in _your_ power to make me exquisitely miserable. Mine is not the cold, hackneyed phrase of gallantry, but the fervid language of passion,” cried he, seizing her hand.