Captain De Molton was in love--desperately in love with Lady Blanche. But he knew he was poor: he knew that if he was to offer her all he had--_i.e._ his whole undivided affections, Lord and Lady Falkingham could not in conscience allow their daughter to accept him. He therefore confined himself to watching her while she was talking to others; he did not allow himself to occupy the seat by her side. If by chance he was betrayed into any expression of his feelings, he studiously avoided her for the next twenty-four hours; and, by so doing, he flattered himself he was playing the part of a martyr. He fancied he was only endangering his own peace of mind; he believed he so completely concealed what was passing within, that hers could run no risk. He had not the self-sufficiency to imagine he could win a heart he did not attempt to gain. But these very starts of passion, these inconsistencies, these uncertainties, the air of intense melancholy which at times overspread his countenance, were more dangerous to a person of Lady Blanche's disposition than the most open and decided attentions. She could not think he was indifferent towards her; yet she was piqued by his occasional avoidance, touched by his air of intense melancholy, delighted with the fire which gleamed from his eye when she addressed him, and with the smile which, when it did light up his countenance, was bright and dazzling as the sunbeam after a summer-storm. In short, while intending to preserve her heart from the sentiment which possessed his own, he unconsciously acted with the most consummate coquetry-- "Piqued her and soothed by turns." Things were in this state, when Captain De Molton's particular friend, Lord Glenrith, arrived at Paris. He was immediately struck with Lady Blanche's beauty, and fascinated by her manners. He was an eldest son, and heir to a fine property. He was extremely good-looking--his character was excellent--as a _parti_ he was unexceptionable.