urn the stoutest into dreamers. The hermit is
the antipodes of the citizen; and no gods animate and inspire us like
the Lares.

One evening, after an absence from Paris of nearly a fortnight, at De
Montaigne's villa, in the neighbourhood of St. Cloud, Maltravers, who,
though he no longer practised the art, was not less fond than heretofore
of music, was seated in Madame de Ventadour's box at the Italian Opera;
and Valerie, who was above all the woman's jealousy of beauty, was
expatiating with great warmth of eulogium upon the charms of a young
English lady whom she had met at Lady G-----'s the preceding evening.

"She is just my beau-ideal of the true English beauty," said Valerie:
"it is not only the exquisite fairness of the complexion, nor the eyes
so purely blue,--which the dark lashes relieve from the coldness common
to the light eyes of the Scotch and German,--that are so beautifully
national, but the simplicity of manner, the unconsciousness of
admiration, the mingled modesty and sense of the expression. No, I have
seen women more beautiful, but I never saw one more lovely: you are
silent; I expected some burst of patriotism in return for my compliment
to your countrywoman!"

"But I am so absorbed in that wonderful Pasta--"

"You are no such thing; your thoughts are far away. But can you tell
me anything about my fair stranger and her friends? In the first place,
there is a Lord Doltimore, whom I knew before--you need say nothing
about him; in the next there is his new married bride, handsome,
dark--but you are not well!"

"It was the draught from the door; go on, I beseech you, the young lady,
the friend, her name?"

"Her name I do not remember; but she was engaged to be married to one of
your statesmen, Lord Vargrave; the marriage is broken off--I know not
if that be the cause of a certain melancholy in her countenance,--a
melancholy I am sure not natural to its Hebe-like expression. But who
have just entered the opposite box? Ah, Mr. Maltravers, do look, there
is the beautiful English girl!"

And Maltravers raised his eyes, and once more beheld the countenance of
Evelyn Cameron!

BOOK VII.

Words of dark import gave suspicion birth.--POTTER.

CHAPTER I.

_Luce_. Is the wind there?
That makes for me.
_Isab_. Come, I forget a business.
_Wit without Money_.

LORD VARGRAVE'S travelling-carriage was at his door, and he himself was
putting on his greatc