itude. Why, too,
was there a smile on every countenance, which often also assumed the
character of a grin? No error so common or so grievous as to suppose
that a smile is a necessary ingredient of the pleasing. There are few
faces that can afford to smile. A smile is sometimes bewitching, in
general vapid, often a contortion. But the bewitching smile usually
beams from the grave face. It is then irresistible. Tancred, though he
was unaware of it, was gifted with this rare spell. He had inherited
it from his mother; a woman naturally earnest and serious, and of a
singular simplicity, but whose heart when pleased spoke in the dimpling
sunshine of her cheek with exquisite beauty. The smiles of the Duchess
of Bellamont, however, were like her diamonds, brilliant, but rarely
worn.

Tancred had not mounted the staircase of Deloraine House with any
anticipation of pleasure. His thoughts were far away amid cities of the
desert, and by the palmy banks of ancient rivers. He often took refuge
in these exciting and ennobling visions, to maintain himself when he
underwent the ceremony of entering a great house. He was so shy in
little things, that to hear his name sounded from servant to servant,
echoing from landing-place to landing-place, was almost overwhelming.
Nothing but his pride, which was just equal to his reserve, prevented
him from often turning back on the stairs and precipitately retreating.
And yet he had not been ten minutes in Deloraine House, before he had
absolutely requested to be introduced to a lady. It was the first time
he had ever made such a request.

He returned home, softly musing. A tone lingered in his ear; he recalled
the countenance of one absent. In his dressing-room he lingered
before he retired, with his arm on the mantel-piece, and gazing with
abstraction on the fire.

When his servant called him, late in the morning, he delivered to him a
card from Mrs. Guy Flouncey, inviting him on that day to Craven Cottage,
at three o'clock: 'dejeuner at four o'clock precisely.' Tancred took the
card, looked at it, and the letters seemed to cluster together and form
the countenance of Lady Constance. 'It will be a good thing to go,' he
said, 'because I want to know Lord Fitz-Heron; he will be of great use
to me about my yacht.' So he ordered his carriage at three o'clock.

The reader must not for a moment suppose that Mrs. Guy Flouncey, though
she was quite as well dressed, and almost as pretty, as she was