“Swear by the dread avengers of the tomb, By all thy hopes, by death’s tremendous gloom, That ne’er by thee deceived, the tender maid Shall mourn her easy confidence betray’d, Nor weep in secret the triumphant art, With bitter anguish rankling in her heart; So may each blessing, which impartial fate Throws on the good, but snatches from the great, Adorn thy favour’d course with rays divine, And Heaven’s best gift, a virtuous love, be thine!” Mr. Hervey read these lines with so much unaffected, unembarrassed energy, that Lady Delacour could not help casting a triumphant look at Belinda, which said or seemed to say--you see I was right in my opinion of Clarence! Had Mr. Vincent been left to his own observations, he would have seen the simple truth; but he was alarmed and deceived by Lady Delacour’s imprudent expressions of joy, and by the significant looks that she gave her friend Miss Portman, which seemed to be _looks of mutual intelligence_. He scarcely dared to turn his eyes toward his mistress, or upon him whom he thought his rival: but he kept them anxiously fixed upon her ladyship, in whose face, as in a glass, he seemed to study every thing that was passing. “Pray, have you ever played at chess, since we saw you last?” said Lady Delacour to Clarence. “I hope you do not forget that you are _my knight_. I do not forget it, I assure you--I own you as my knight to all the world, in public and private--do not I, Belinda?” A dark cloud overspread Mr. Vincent’s brow--he listened not to Belinda’s answer. Seized with a transport of jealousy, he darted at Mr. Hervey a glance of mingled scorn and rage; and, after saying a few unintelligible words to Miss Portman and Lady Delacour, he left the room. Clarence Hervey, who seemed afraid to trust himself longer with Belinda, withdrew a few minutes afterward. “My dear Belinda,” exclaimed Lady Delacour, the moment that he was out of the room, “how glad I am he is gone, that I may say all the good I think of him! In the first place, Clarence Hervey loves you. Never was I so fully convinced of it as this day. Why had we not that letter of his sooner? that will explain all to us: but I ask for no explanation, I ask for no letter, to confirm my opinion, my conviction--that he _loves_ you: on this point I _cannot_ be mistaken--he fondly loves you.” “He fondly loves her!--Yes, to be sure, I could have told you that news long ago,” cried the dowager Lady Boucher, who was in the room before they were aware of her entrance; they had both been so eager, the one listening, and the other speaking.