He rose, and an expression of disappointment passed over his grave, handsome features, and as quickly vanished. "Adieu! my dear Miss Digby; I fear I have wearied you, especially with my politics. Adieu, Lady Lansmere; no doubt I shall see Harley as soon as he returns." Then he hastened from the room, gained his carriage, and ordered the coachman to drive to Downing-street. He drew down the blinds, and leant back. A certain languor became visible in his face, and once or twice he mechanically put his hand to his heart. "She is good, amiable, docile—will make an excellent wife, no doubt," said he, murmuringly. "But does she love Harley as he has dreamed of love? No! Has she the power and energy to arouse his faculties, and restore to the world the Harley of old? No! Meant by heaven to be the shadow of another’s sun—not herself the sun—this child is not the one who can atone for the Past and illume the Future." CHAPTER VII. That evening Harley L’Estrange arrived at his father’s house. The few years that had passed since we saw him last, had made no perceptible change in his appearance. He still preserved his elastic youthfulness of form, and singular variety and play of countenance. He seemed unaffectedly rejoiced to greet his parents, and had something of the gayety and the tenderness of a boy returned from school. His manner to Helen bespoke the chivalry that pervaded all the complexities and curves of his character. It was affectionate but respectful. Hers to him, subdued—but innocently sweet and gently cordial. Harley was the chief talker. The aspect of the times was so critical, that he could not avoid questions on politics; and, indeed, he showed an interest in them which he had never evinced before. Lord Lansmere was delighted. "Why, Harley, you love your country, after all?" "The moment she seems in danger—yes!" replied the Patrician; and the Sybarite seemed to rise into the Athenian. Then he asked with eagerness about his old friend Audley; and, his curiosity satisfied there, he inquired the last literary news. He had heard much of a book lately published. He named the one ascribed by Parson Dale to Professor Moss; none of his listeners had read it. Harley pished at this, and accused them all of indolence and stupidity in his own quaint, metaphorical style. Then he said—"And town gossip?" "We never hear it," said Lady Lansmere. "There is a new plough much talked of at Boodle’s," said Lord Lansmere. "God speed it. But is there not a new man much talked of at White’s?" "I don’t belong to White’s." "Nevertheless, you may have heard of him—a foreigner, a Count di Peschiera." "Yes," said Lord Lansmere; "he was pointed out to me in the Park—a handsome man for a foreigner; wears his hair properly cut; looks gentlemanlike and English." "Ah, ah! He is here then!" And Harley rubbed his hands. "Which road did you take? Did you pass the Simplon?" "No; I came straight from Vienna."