Mr. Hervey then conjured Mrs. Ormond, by all her attachment to him and to her pupil, never to give Virginia the most distant idea that he had any intentions of making her his wife. She promised to do all that was in her power to keep this secret, but she could not help observing that it had already been betrayed, as plainly as looks could speak, by Mr. Hervey himself. Clarence in vain endeavoured to exculpate himself from this charge: Mrs. Ormond brought to his recollection so many instances of his indiscretion, that it was substantiated even in his own judgment, and he was amazed to find that all the time he had put so much constraint upon his inclinations, he had, nevertheless, so obviously betrayed them. His surprise, however, was at this time unmixed with any painful regret; he did not foresee the probability that he should change his mind; and notwithstanding Mrs. Ormond assured him that Virginia’s sensibility had increased, he was persuaded that she was mistaken, and that his pupil’s heart and imagination were yet untouched. The innocent openness with which she expressed her affection for him confirmed him, he said, in his opinion. To do him justice, Clarence had none of the presumption which too often characterizes men who have been successful, as it is called, with the fair sex. His acquaintance with women had increased his persuasion that it is difficult to excite genuine love in the heart; and with respect to himself, he was upon this subject astonishingly incredulous. It was scarcely possible to convince him that he was beloved. Mrs. Ormond, piqued upon this subject, determined to ascertain more decisively her pupil’s sentiments. “My dear,” said she, one day to Virginia, who was feeding her bullfinch, “I do believe you are fonder of that bird than of any thing in the world--fonder of it, I am sure, than of me.” “Oh! you cannot think so,” said Virginia, with an affectionate smile. “Well! fonder than you are of Mr. Hervey, you will allow, at least?” “No, indeed!” cried she, eagerly: “how can you think me so foolish, so childish, so ungrateful, as to prefer a little worthless bird to him--” (the bullfinch began to sing so loud at this instant, that her enthusiastic speech was stopped). “My pretty bird,” said she, as it perched upon her hand, “I love you very much, but if Mr. Hervey were to ask it, to wish it, I would open that window, and let you fly; yes, and bid you fly away far from me for ever. Perhaps he does wish it?--Does he?--Did he tell you so?” cried she, looking earnestly in Mrs. Ormond’s face, as she moved towards the window. Mrs. Ormond put her hand upon the sash, as Virginia was going to throw it up-- “Gently, gently, my love--whither is your imagination carrying you?” “I thought _something_ by your look,” said Virginia, blushing. “And I thought _something_, my dear Virginia,” said Mrs. Ormond, smiling. “What did you think?--What _could_ you think?”