“I _cannot_ see it in too strong a light.--Nothing to forgive!--Yes, you have; that which it is the most difficult to forgive--injustice. Oh, how you must have despised me for the folly, the meanness of my suspicions! Of all tempers that which appears to me, and I am sure to you, the most despicable, the most intolerable, is a suspicious temper. Mine was once open, generous as your own--you see how the best dispositions may be depraved--what am I now? Fit only ‘To point a moral, or adorn a tale’-- a mismatched, misplaced, miserable, perverted being.” “And now you have abused yourself till you are breathless, I may have some chance,” said Belinda, “of being heard in your defence. I perfectly agree with you in thinking that a suspicious temper is despicable and intolerable; but there is a vast difference between an acute fit of jealousy, as our friend Dr. X---- would say, and a chronic habit of suspicion. The noblest natures may be worked up to suspicion by designing villany; and then a handkerchief, or a hammercloth, ‘trifles as light as air’--” “Oh, my dear, you are too good. But my folly admits of no excuse, no palliation,” interrupted Lady Delacour; “mine was jealousy without love.” “That indeed would admit of no excuse,” said Belinda; “therefore you will pardon me if I think it incredible--especially as I have detected you in feeling something like affection for your little daughter, after you had done your best, I mean your worst, to make me believe that you were a monster of a mother.” “That was quite another affair, my dear. I did not know Helena was worth loving. I did not imagine my little daughter could love me. When I found my mistake, I changed my tone. But there is no hope of mistake with my poor husband. Your own sense must show you, that Lord Delacour is not a man to beloved.” “That could not _always_ have been your ladyship’s opinion,” said Belinda, with an arch smile. “Lord! my dear,” said Lady Delacour, a little embarrassed, “in the highest paroxysm of my madness, I never suspected that you could _love_ Lord Delacour; I surely only hinted that you were in love with his coronet. That was absurd enough in all conscience--don’t make me more absurd than I am.” “Is it then the height of absurdity to love a husband?” “Love! Nonsense!--Impossible!--Hush! here he comes, with his odious creaking shoes. What man can ever expect to be loved who wears creaking shoes?” pursued her ladyship, as Lord Delacour entered the room, his shoes creaking at every step; and assuming an air of levity, she welcomed him as a stranger to her dressing-room. “No speeches, my lord! no speeches, I beseech you,” cried she, as he was beginning to speak to Miss Portman. “Believe me, that explanations always make bad worse. Miss Portman is here, thank Heaven! and her; and Champfort is gone, thank you--or your boots. And now let us sit down to breakfast, and forget as soon as possible every thing that is disagreeable.”