s soon as they could be torn
away from the kisses and tears of Lady M--, who played the part of a
bereaved mother to perfection. No one to have seen her then, raving
like another Niobe, would have imagined that all her thoughts and
endeavours and manoeuvres, for the last three years, had been devoted to
the sole view of getting them off; but Lady M--was a perfect actress,
and this last scene was well got up.

As her daughters were led down to the carriages, I thought that she was
going to faint; but it appeared, on second thoughts, that she wished
first to see the girls depart in their gay equipages; she therefore
tottered to the window, saw them get in, looked at Newman's greys and
gay postillions--at the white and silver favours--the dandy valet and
smart lady's-maid in each rumble. She saw them start at a rattling
pace, watched them till they turned the corner of the square, and then--
and not till then--fell senseless in my arms, and was carried by the
attendants into her own room.

After all, the poor woman must have been very much worn out, for she had
been for the last six weeks in a continual worry lest any _contre-temps_
should happen, which might have stopped or delayed the happy
consummation.

The next morning her ladyship did not leave her room, but sent word down
that the carriage was at my service; but I was fatigued and worn out,
and declined it for that day. I wrote to Lionel and to Mr Selwyn,
desiring them to meet me in Baker Street, at two o'clock the next day;
and then passed the day quietly, in company with Amy, the third daughter
of Lady M--, whom I have before mentioned. She was a very sweet,
unaffected girl; and I was more partial to her than to her sisters, who
had been just married. I had paid great attention to her, for she had a
fine voice, and did credit to my teaching, and there was a great
intimacy between us, arising on my part from my admiration of her
ingenuous and amiable disposition, which even her mother's example to
the contrary could not spoil.

After some conversation relative to her sisters and their husbands, she
said, "I hardly know what to do, Valerie. I love you too well to be a
party to your being ill-treated, and yet I fear that you will be pained
if I tell you what I have heard about you. I know also that you will
not stay, if I do tell you, and that will give me great pain; but _that_
is a selfish feeling which I could overcome. What I do not like is
hurting y