“You have called me your friend, Lady Delacour,” said she; “I should but ill deserve that name, if I had not the courage to speak the truth to you--if I had not the courage to tell you when I think you are wrong.” “But I have not the courage to hear you, my dear,” said Lady Delacour, stopping her ears. “So your conscience may be at ease; you may suppose that you have said every thing that is wise, and good, and proper, and sublime, and that you deserve to be called the best of friends; you shall enjoy the office of censor to Lady Delacour, and welcome; but remember, it is a sinecure place, though I will pay you with my love and esteem to any extent you please. You sigh--for my folly. Alas! my dear, ‘tis hardly worth while--my follies will soon be at an end. Of what use could even the wisdom of Solomon be to me now? If you have any humanity, you will not force me to reflect: whilst I yet live, I must _keep it up_ with incessant dissipation--the teetotum keeps upright only while it spins: so let us talk of the birthnight, or the new play that we are to see to-night, or the ridiculous figure Lady H---- made at the concert; or let us talk of Harrowgate, or what you will.” Pity succeeded to disgust and displeasure in Belinda’s mind, and she could hardly refrain from tears, whilst she saw this unhappy creature, with forced smiles, endeavour to hide the real anguish of her soul: she could only say, “But, my dear Lady Delacour, do not you think that your little Helena, who seems to have a most affectionate disposition, would add to your happiness at home?” “Her affectionate disposition can be nothing to me,” said Lady Delacour. Belinda felt a hot tear drop upon her hand, which lay upon Lady Delacour’s lap. “Can you wonder,” continued her ladyship, hastily wiping away the tear which she had let fall; “can you wonder that I should talk of detesting Lady Anne Percival? You see she has robbed me of the affections of my child. Helena asks to come home: yes, but how does she ask it? Coldly, formally,--as a duty. But look at the end of her letter; I have read it all--every bitter word of it I have tasted. How differently she writes--look even at the flowing hand--the moment she begins to speak of Lady Anne Percival; then her soul breaks out: ‘Lady Anne has offered to take her to Oakly-park--she should be extremely happy to go, if I please.’ Yes, let her go; let her go as far from me as possible; let her never, never see her wretched mother more!--Write,” said Lady Delacour, turning hastily to Belinda, “write in my name, and tell her to go to Oakly-park, and to be happy.” “But why should you take it for granted that she cannot be happy with you?” said Belinda. “Let us see her--let us try the experiment.” “No,” said Lady Delacour; “no--it is too late: I will never condescend in my last moments to beg for that affection to which it may be thought I have forfeited my natural claim.”