That gleam of satisfaction which had suddenly appeared upon her countenance, gradually expanded into a glow of delight, brilliant and beautiful. "Perhaps he thinks that I shall endeavour to win him back again to my arms," she said, musing aloud;--"perhaps he imagines that his countenance and support are imperatively necessary to me? Oh! no--Sir Rupert Harborough," she exclaimed, with a smile of triumph; "you may vainly await self-humiliation from me! To-morrow--yes, so soon as to-morrow shall you see that I can command a position more splendid than the one in which you placed me!" Obeying the impulse of her feelings, she hastened to unlock an elegant rosewood writing-desk, edged with silver; and from a secret drawer she took several letters--or rather notes--written upon paper of different colours. Upon the various envelopes were seals impressed with armorial bearings, some of which were surmounted by coronets. She glanced over each in a cursory manner, which shewed she was already tolerably familiar with their contents. The greater portion she tossed contemptuously into the fire;--a few she placed one upon the other, quite in a business-like way, upon the table. When she had gone through the entire file, she again directed her attention to those which she had reserved; and as she perused them one after the other, she mused in the following manner:-- "Count de Lestranges is brilliant in his offers, and immensely rich--no doubt; but he is detestably conceited, and would think more of himself than of his mistress. His appeal must be rejected;" and she threw the French nobleman's perfumed epistle into the fire. "This," she continued, taking up another, "is from Lord Templeton. Five thousand a-year is certainly handsome; but then he himself is so old and ugly! Away with this suitor at once." The English Peer's _billet-doux_ followed that of the French Count. "Here is a beautiful specimen of calligraphy," resumed Diana, taking up a third letter; "but all the sentiments are copied, word for word, out of the love-scenes in Anne Radcliffe's romances. Never was such gross plagiarism! He merits the punishment I thus inflict upon him;"--and her plump white hand crushed the epistle ere she threw it into the fire. "But what have we here? Oh! the German baron's killing address--interspersed with remarks upon the philosophy of love. Ah! my lord, love was not made for philosophers--and philosophers are incapable of love; so we will have none of you." Another offering to the fire. "Here is the burning address of the Greek _attaché_ with a hard name. It is prettily written;--but who could possibly enter upon terms with an individual of the name of Thesaurochrysonichochrysides?" To the flames went the Greek lover's note also.