In the mean time, our heroine, to whom the conduct of a double intrigue was by no means embarrassing, did not neglect the affairs of her dear Albina: she had found time before breakfast, as she met Miss Hunter getting out of her carriage, to make herself sure that her notes of explanation had been understood; and she now, by a multitude of scarcely perceptible inuendoes, and seemingly suppressed looks of pity, contrived to carry on the representation she had made to her son of this damsel’s helpless and lovelorn state. Indeed, the young lady appeared as much in love as could have been desired for stage effect, and rather more than was necessary for propriety. All Mrs. Beaumont’s art, therefore, was exerted to throw a veil of becoming delicacy over what might have been too glaring, by hiding half to improve the whole. Where there was any want of management on the part of her young coadjutrix, she, with exquisite skill, made advantage even of these errors by look? and sighs, that implied almost as emphatically as words could have said to her son--“You see what I told you is too true. The simple creature has not art enough to conceal her passion. She is undone in the eyes of the world, if you do not confirm what report has said.” This she left to work its natural effect upon the vanity of man. And in the midst of these multiplied manoeuvres, Mrs. Beaumont sat with ease and unconcern, sometimes talking to one, sometimes to another; so that a stranger would have thought her a party uninterested in all that was going forward, and might have wondered at her blindness or indifference. But, alas! notwithstanding her utmost art, she failed this day in turning and twisting Sir John Hunter’s conversation and character so as to make them agreeable to Mr. Palmer. This she knew by his retiring at an early hour at night, as he sometimes did when company was not agreeable to him. His age gave him this privilege. Mrs. Beaumont followed, to inquire if he would not wish to _take something_ before he went to rest. “By St. George, Madam Beaumont, you are right,” said Mr. Palmer, “you are right, in not liking this baronet. I’m tired of him--sick of him--can’t like him!--sorry for it, since Amelia likes him. But what can a daughter of Colonel Beaumont find in this man to be pleased with? He is a baronet, to be sure, but that is all. Tell me, my good madam, what it is the girl likes in him?” Mrs. Beaumont could only answer by an equivocal smile, and a shrug, that seemed to say--there’s no accounting for these things.