sted in one so gifted?"

"He has certainly noble and fine qualities," returned Legard; "but
I cannot feel at ease with him: a coldness, a _hauteur_, a measured
distance of manner, seem to forbid even esteem. Yet _I_ ought not to say
so," he added, with a pang of self-reproach.

"No, indeed, you ought not to say so," said Evelyn, shaking her head
with a pretty affectation of anger; "for I know that you pretend to like
what I like, and admire what I admire; and I am an enthusiast in all
that relates to Mr. Maltravers!"

"I know that I would wish to see all things in life through Miss
Cameron's eyes," whispered Legard, softly; and this was the most meaning
speech he had ever yet made.

Evelyn turned away, and seemed absorbed in the opera; and at that
instant the door of the box opened, and Maltravers entered.

In her open, undisguised, youthful delight at seeing him again,
Maltravers felt, indeed, "as if Paradise were opened in her face." In
his own agitated emotions, he scarcely noticed that Legard had risen and
resigned his seat to him; he availed himself of the civility, greeted
his old acquaintance with a smile and a bow, and in a few minutes he was
in deep converse with Evelyn.

Never had he so successfully exerted the singular, the
master-fascination that he could command at will,--the more powerful
from its contrast to his ordinary coldness. In the very expression of
his eyes, the very tone of his voice, there was that in Maltravers, seen
at his happier moments, which irresistibly interested and absorbed your
attention: he could make you forget everything but himself, and the
rich, easy, yet earnest eloquence, which gave colour to his language and
melody to his voice. In that hour of renewed intercourse with one who
had at first awakened, if not her heart, at least her imagination and
her deeper thoughts, certain it is that even Legard was not missed.
As she smiled and listened, Evelyn dreamed not of the anguish she
inflicted. Leaning against the box, Legard surveyed the absorbed
attention of Evelyn, the adoring eyes of Maltravers, with that utter and
crushing wretchedness which no passion but jealousy, and that only while
it is yet a virgin agony, can bestow! He had never before even dreamed
of rivalry in such a quarter; but there was that ineffable instinct,
which lovers have, and which so seldom errs, that told him at once that
in Maltravers was the greatest obstacle his passion could encounter. He
waited