“Accustomed!” said Belinda, smiling: “one does grow accustomed even to disagreeable things certainly; but at this rate, my dear Lady Anne, I do not doubt but one might grow _accustomed_ to Caliban.” “My belief in the reconciling power of custom does not go quite so far,” said Lady Anne. “It does not extend to Caliban, or even to the hero of La Belle et La Bête; but I do believe, that, in a mind so well regulated as yours, esteem may certainly in time be improved into love. I will tell Mr. Vincent so, my dear.” “No, my dear Lady Anne! no; you must not--indeed you must not. You have too good an opinion of me--my mind is not so well regulated--I am much weaker, much sillier, than you imagine--than you can conceive,” said Belinda. Lady Anne soothed her with the most affectionate expressions, and concluded with saying, “Mr. Vincent has promised not to return from Harrowgate, to torment you with his addresses, if you be absolutely determined against him. He is of too generous, and perhaps too proud a temper, to persecute you with vain solicitations; and however Mr. Percival and I may wish that he could obtain such a wife, we shall have the common, or uncommon, sense and good-nature to allow our friends to be happy their own way.” “You are very good--too good. But am I then to be the cause of banishing Mr. Vincent from all his friends--from Oakly-park?” “Will he not do what is most prudent, to avoid the charming Miss Portman,” said Lady Anne, smiling, “if he must not love her? This was at least the advice I gave him, when he consulted us yesterday evening. But I will not sign his writ of banishment lightly. Nothing but the assurance that the heart is engaged can be a sufficient cause for despair; nothing else could, in my eyes, justify you, my dear Belinda, from the charge of caprice.” “I can give you no such assurance, I hope--I believe,” said Belinda, in great confusion; “and yet I would not for the world deceive you: you have a right to my sincerity.” She paused; and Lady Anne said with a smile, “Perhaps I can spare you the trouble of telling me in words what a blush told me, or at least made me suspect, yesterday evening, when we were standing by the river side, when little Charles asked you--” “Yes, I remember--I saw you look at me.” “Undesignedly, believe me.” “Undesignedly, I am sure; but I was afraid you would think--” “The truth.” “No; but more than the truth. The truth you shall hear; and the rest I will leave to your judgment and to your kindness.”