covered, namely, that of being cousin to Lady de Clifford, felt a slight sense of the ridiculous, "et pour se tirer d'affaire," thought he had better continue the catalogue of their mutual friends; and therefore mentioned another diplomatic effigy, Mr. Grimstone, a brother of Lord de Clifford's.

Lady de Clifford did more than smile at Mowbray's anecdotes of him; but in the midst of their mirth the door opened, and the Comte de A. and Lord de Clifford entered. There is no need of describing the poor comte; indeed, it would be no easy task, as he amounted to what all Italian and French husbands do-a mere cipher. Lord de Clifford was a perpendicular, stately personage, aspiring towards seven feet: he gave one the idea of never even in sleep having been guilty of an easy position: the vulgar term of "he looks as if he had swallowed a poker," was completely exemplified in his appearance. He had straight, stiff, and obstinate (very obstinate) brown hair, very small, light gray eyes; a nose so aquiline, that if it had appeared on paper, instead of on a human face, it would have been pronounced a caricature; his upper lip was straight, and of that inordinate length which may be taken as the affidavit of the face to the obstinacy of the owner's character. It is, after this, perhaps, unnecessary to add that he always wore a blue coat and gilt buttons of an evening, with a huge and very white stiff cravat, that looked cut out of stone, after the Tam O'Shanter order of sculpture.

Nature seemed to have given him a sort of rag-bag of a mind, made up of the strangest and most incongruous odds and ends possible, with a clumsy kind of arrogance of all-work to arrange it, that was continually adding to its confusion; his information, such as it was (though he aimed at the universal), might be compared to the "Penny Cyclopædia" printed upside down; and the curious and gigantic pomposity with which he dealt out the smallest and most commonplace fact, reminded one of an elephant, with mighty effort, bowing out its trunk to pick up a pin's head or a piece of thread. Among his mass of information, geology, of course, had not been neglected; and having heard at school or elsewhere that, did the world lose but the smallest atom of its gravity, it would be at an end, he always seemed impressed with the idea that he was the important atom

on which its existence depended; and also was of opinion that so great a man should be governed by the same principles as the universe, and therefore took care never to lose an atom of his own gravity; for which reason, strange to say, he was never known to catch the infection when others were laughing at him. In politics he was an ultra-Liberal (it gives more scope for declamation); in private life (as is the general pendant to public liberality) he was a tyrannical autocrat, a Caligula in his clemency, and a Draco in his displeasure; whatever appertained to him was always the best and most faultless in the world; all, excepting his wife; she was not of his own immediate stock; merely a graft, which accounted for all her faults; that, among the rest, of his never being able (incessantly as he impressed it on her) to get her to feel and appreciate her wonderful good fortune in being wedded to him, which was the more extraordinary, as she had left the nursery at her mother's commands to marry him; not but that Lady de Clifford was, in thought, word, and deed, what any other man would have considered perfection for a wife; but then, for such superhuman merits as his, what could be good enough? Still it might have puzzled even him to find a real fault in her; for had she to her other rare qualities added the rarest of all, that of being able to adore him, she could not have anticipated, and prevented, and studied every wish of his, with more scrupulous devotion and delicacy than she did. This his selfishness could not help feeling, though his heart or his memory never recollected it, or he could not have subjugated her so completely to the surveillance, interference, and petty tyranny of every member of his family as he did. But then they were his family, and, consequently, must know better about everything, from the dressing of a child to the drowning of a puppy, than any wife could possibly do. Not that he did not, imbruted as he was, see his wife's superiority; for no one could, when occasion required, make more use of her talents; but then he liked to try and make his family, the world, and especially herself, believe that she was as ignorant and inferior as, according to his opinions, every woman ought to be. After Lord de Clifford had made one of his stiffest bows to Mowbray, and as stiffly shaken Saville by the hand, he inflicted himself upon poor Madame de A., making commonplace obserVOL. I.-D

vations upon the opera, in bad French and worse Italian, till even she was wearied out of her good-breeding into exclaiming, "Mais, mon Dieu! milord parlais Anglais, et je tacherai de vous comprendre." Meanwhile, Mowbray and Lady de Clifford had resumed their conversation, and the name of Grimstone reaching his ear, accompanied by a slight laugh, he turned to his sposa, and inquired, with an angry frown, and a sneering smile that made an awkward attempt to neutralize it,

"Are you speaking of my brother?"

Lady De Clifford crimsoned to her very temples, and in the greatest confusion stammered out, "No-yesthat is, Mr. Mowbray was talking about my giddy cousin, George Pierpoint, and your brother whom he also met at Vienna."

Mowbray was at a loss to conceive what the necessity of this evident embarrassment and equivocation could be, as he had merely been recording Mr. Herbert Grimstone's awful importance whenever a courier was going out, and it was necessary to make up a bag, whether of ladies' letters and commissions, or of circular negatives from the " corps diplomatique" to their English duns; but certain it was she had equivocated in the most undeniable manner; for at the moment, and, indeed, for some time before, there had been no mention of Pierpoint's name. Then why denounce him to her husband as being the subject of their conversation? It was strange, it was passing strange! Could one so gifted, so amiable as she appeared (and on whose countenance candour itself seemed to have set her seal), could she be guilty of art, of subterfuge, nay, almost of positive want of truth? It would be impossible to describe the painful revulsion that took place in Mowbray's feelings as he asked himself these questions. "Fool!" said he, as he felt his cheek flushing and his pulse beating quickly, "and what is it to me if she is all that's artful, all that's bad? And yet, why, oh! why are we thus to be eternally disappointed in all earthly things? why, when we no sooner find flowers more fair, more fresh, more bright than others, must we at the same time discover that 'the trail of the serpent is over them all?'"

There is no knowing how long he might have moralized within himself, had not his revery been broken in upon by the silver voice of Lady de Clifford asking

him to reach her shawl, as the ballet was over: that voice, so low, so soft, so touching, seemed to his heated imagination like that of an angel pronouncing a pitying absolution upon his sin, in having for a moment doubted its divinity. He folded the shawl almost reverentially, and, in placing it on her shoulders, he did it as gently as though one rough movement would have been sacrilege; nor did he venture to offer his arm till he perceived there was no one else left to do so; and then quickly and silently they followed the rest of the party down stairs: he placed his fair charge in the carriage without even saying "good-night;" nor was he roused to a sense of this omission, till the sonorous pomposity of Lord de Clifford's voice, asking him to accompany Saville to dinner at his house on the following day, enabled him to accept the invitation and make his adieus at the same time. No sooner was he seated in his own carriage, than Saville turned round and joyously exclaimed,

Well, Mowbray, what do you think of her? Did I say too much?"

"Think of her!" said Mowbray; "what can any one think but that she is an angel, as far as outward appearance goes-but-but-"

"But what?" interrupted Saville; "for Heaven's sake, Mowbray, what do you mean?”

Mowbray, ashamed to find that he had not been answering his friend's question, but recurring to Lady de Clifford's evasion, felt heartily ashamed both of his selfishness and his suspicion, and turned off the disqualifying but that had so alarmed poor Saville into

"But I was going to say, Harry, when you interrupted me, that I think it a pity you should put yourself in the way of so much temptation, unless there is some chance of your father's consent."

"Oh! as to that," said Saville, who was too happy to be critical upon the probabilities of the latter being Mowbray's original, "but as to that, you know, by my uncle Cecil's will, I am to inherit what he left me at seven-and-twenty; that I shall be in two years, and abroad we can do very well on two thousand a year; only the worst of it is, two years is a devil of a time to wait."

Mowbray drank more hock and soda-water that night than would have quenched the thirst of twenty fevers;

and Saville declared it was too hot to think of bed those three hours, and talked incessantly of Fanny; Mowbray to all appearance listened most attentively; never once interrupting him, and only nodding assent to every perfection he accused her of. When at length they retired for the night, sleep seemed as far from them as ever. Saville was too happy, and in too much anticipation of happiness, to sleep; and Mowbray had such an innate love of truth, that he kept turning and twisting Lady de Clifford's dereliction from it in every possible and impossible form, till the cathedral clock tolled five; when, turning round, and flinging the pillow from him, he lulled himself to sleep with his opera interrogation, "and what is it to me if she is all that's artful and all that's bad?"

CHAPTER IV.

Let no man on his first falling in with the devil, evince towards him a forbearing civility, lest, like unto a maiden's importunate lover, he construe it into a secret yearning hinward. For the devil, like his pupil man, is a vain devil; and it taketh much to disconcert him with himself, or despair him of success; therefore, at the onset, say thou, Get thee behind me, Satan,' lest from encouragement no bigger than a midge's egg, he (like all low knaves courting the acquaintanceship of their superiors) in a short time get too fast hold on thee, for all thy strength to shuffle him off, and so he end by riding rough-shod over thy soul."-FRANCIS FLOWERDALE.

It was late the next morning before Mowbray came down to breakfast, and he found that Saville had been gone out some time to the palazza. His first impulse was to follow him thither; but, on reflection, he thought it would appear obtrusive, and, moreover, the great desire he felt to do so convinced him (as he walked up and down the room in a state of wavering deliberation) that it would be better he did not. "No, no," said he, snatching up his hat; as I am to dine there, that is enough." Yet, thought he, I should like to see if it is possible that she can look as well of a morning as she does at night; and if she does or does not, what is that to me? Nothing, absolutely nothing! and the short bitter laugh that followed the mental answer he had

66