It was not the mercenary wily prudence of a young lady, who has been taught to think it virtue to sacrifice the affections of her heart to the interests of her fortune—it was not the prudence of a cold and selfish, but of a modest and generous woman. She found it most difficult to satisfy herself in her conduct towards Clarence Hervey: he seemed mortified and miserable if she treated him merely as a common acquaintance, yet she felt the danger of admitting him to the familiarity of friendship. Had she been thoroughly convinced that he was attached to some other woman, she hoped that she could freely converse with him, and look upon him as a married man; but notwithstanding the lock of beautiful hair, she could not entirely divest herself of the idea that she was beloved, when she observed the extreme eagerness with which Clarence Hervey watched all her motions, and followed her with his eye as if his fate depended upon her. She remarked that he endeavoured as much as possible to prevent this species of attention from being noticed, either by the public or by herself; his manner towards her every day became more distant and respectful, more constrained and embarrassed; but now and then a different look and expression escaped. She had often heard of Mr. Hervey’s great address in affairs of gallantry, and she was sometimes inclined to believe that he was trifling with her, merely for the glory of a conquest over her heart; at other times she suspected him of deeper designs upon her, such as would deserve contempt and detestation; but upon the whole she was disposed to believe that he was entangled by some former attachment from which he could not extricate himself with honour; and upon this supposition she thought him worthy of her esteem, and of her pity.

About this time Sir Philip Baddely began to pay a sort of lounging attention to Belinda: he knew that Clarence Hervey liked her, and this was the principal cause of his desire to attract her attention. “Belinda Portman” became his favourite toast, and amongst his companions he gave himself the air of talking of her with rapture.

“Rochfort,” said he, one day, to his friend, “damme, if I was to think of Belinda Portman in any way—you take me—Clary would look damned blue—hey?—damned blue, and devilish small, and cursed silly too—hey?”

“’Pon honour, I should like to see him,” said Rochfort: “’pon honour, he deserves it from us, Sir Phil, and I’ll stand your friend with the girl, and it will do no harm to give her a hint of Clary’s Windsor flame, as a dead secret—’pon honour, he deserves it from us.”

Now it seems that Sir Philip Baddely and Mr. Rochfort, during the time of Clarence Hervey’s intimacy with them, observed that he paid frequent visits at Windsor, and they took it into their heads that he kept a mistress there. They were very curious to see her: and, unknown to Clarence, they made several attempts for this purpose: at last one evening, when they were certain that he was not at Windsor, they scaled the high garden wall of the house which he frequented, and actually obtained a sight of a beautiful young girl and an elderly lady, whom they took for her gouvernante. This adventure they kept a profound secret from Clarence, because they knew that he would have quarrelled with them immediately, and would have called them to account for their intrusion. They now determined to avail themselves of their knowledge, and of his ignorance of this circumstance: but they were sensible that it was necessary to go warily to work, lest they should betray themselves. Accordingly they began by dropping distant mysterious hints about Clarence Hervey to Lady Delacour and Miss Portman. Such for instance as—“Damme, we all know Clary’s a perfect connoisseur in beauty—hey, Rochfort?—one beauty at a time is not enough for him—hey, damme? And it is not fashion, nor wit, nor elegance, and all that, that he looks for always.”

These observations were accompanied with the most significant looks. Belinda heard and saw all this in painful silence, but Lady Delacour often used her address to draw some farther explanation from Sir Philip: his regular answer was, “No, no, your ladyship must excuse me there; I can’t peach, damme-hey, Rochfort?”

He was in hopes, from the reserve with which Miss Portman began to treat Clarence, that he should, without making any distinct charge, succeed in disgusting her with his rival. Mr. Hervey was about this time less assiduous than formerly in his visits at Lady Delacour’s; Sir Philip was there every day, and often for Miss Portman’s entertainment exerted himself so far as to tell the news of the town. One morning, when Clarence Hervey happened to be present, the baronet thought it incumbent upon him to eclipse his rival in conversation, and he began to talk of the last fête champêtre at Frogmore.

“What a cursed unlucky overturn that was of yours, Lady Delacour, with those famous young horses! Why, what with this sprain, and this nervous business, you’ve not been able to stir out since the birthday, and you’ve missed the breakfast, and all that, at Frogmore—why, all the world stayed broiling in town on purpose for it, and you that had a card too—how damned provoking!”

“I regret extremely that my illness prevented me from being at this charming fête; I regret it more on Miss Portman’s account than on my own,” said her ladyship. Belinda assured her that she felt no mortification from the disappointment.

“O, damme! but I would have driven you in my curricle,” said Sir Philip: “it was the finest sight and best conducted I ever saw, and only wanted Miss Portman to make it complete. We had gipsies, and Mrs. Mills the actress for the queen of the gipsies; and she gave us a famous good song, Rochfort, you know—and then there was two children upon an ass—damme, I don’t know how they came there, for they’re things one sees every day—and belonged only to two of the soldiers’ wives—for we had the whole band of the Staffordshire playing at dinner, and we had some famous glees—and Fawcett gave us his laughing song, and then we had the launching of the ship, and only it was a boat, it would have been well enough—but damme, the song of Polly Oliver was worth the whole—except the Flemish Hercules, Ducrow, you know, dressed in light blue and silver, and—Miss Portman, I wish you had seen this—three great coach-wheels on his chin, and a ladder and two chairs and two children on them—and after that, he sported a musquet and bayonet with the point of the bayonet on his chin—faith! that was really famous! But I forgot the Pyrrhic dance, Miss Portman, which was damned fine too—danced in boots and spurs by those Hungarian fellows—they jump and turn about, and clap their knees with their hands, and put themselves in all sorts of ways—and then we had that song of Polly Oliver, as I told you before, and Mrs. Mills gave us—no, no—it was a drummer of the Staffordshire dressed as a gipsy girl, gave us the cottage on the moor, the most charming thing, and would suit your voice, Miss Portman—damme, you’d sing it like an angel—But where was I?—Oh, then they had tea—and fireplaces built of brick, out in the air—and then the entrance to the ball room was all a colonnade done with lamps and flowers, and that sort of thing—and there was some bon-mot (but that was in the morning) amongst the gipsies about an orange and the stadtholder—and then there was a Turkish dance, and a Polonese dance, all very fine, but nothing to come up to the Pyrrhic touch, which was a great deal the most knowing, in boots and spurs—damme, now, I can’t describe the thing to you, ’tis a cursed pity you weren’t there, damme.”

Lady Delacour assured Sir Philip that she had been more entertained by the description than she could have been by the reality.—“Clarence, was not it the best description you ever heard? But pray favour us with a touch of the Pyrrhic dance, Sir Philip.”

Lady Delacour spoke with such polite earnestness, and the baronet had so little penetration and so much conceit, that he did not suspect her of irony: he eagerly began to exhibit the Pyrrhic dance, but in such a manner that it was impossible for human gravity to withstand the sight—Rochfort laughed first, Lady Delacour followed him, and Clarence Hervey and Belinda could no longer restrain themselves.

“Damme, now I believe you’ve all been quizzing me,” cried the baronet, and he fell into a sulky silence, eyeing Clarence Hervey and Miss Portman from time to time with what he meant for a knowing look. His silence and sulkiness lasted till Clarence took his leave. Soon afterward Belinda retired to the music room. Sir Philip then begged to speak a few words to Lady Delacour, with a face of much importance: and after a preamble of nonsensical expletives, he said that his regard for her ladyship and Miss Portman made him wish to explain hints which had been dropped from him at times, and which he could not explain to her satisfaction, without a promise of inviolable secresy. “As Hervey is or was a sort of a friend, I can’t mention this sort of thing without such a preliminary.”—Lady Delacour gave the preliminary promise, and Sir Philip informed her, that people began to take notice that Hervey was an admirer of Miss Portman, and that it might be a disadvantage to the young lady, as Mr.