to-night, Eustace; so leave me now, lest I begin to frown, by way of
variety. Adieu!"

She immediately closed the window, and De Valette turned away, playing
carelessly on his flute as he retired.

"Thank heaven! he is gone;" was the mental exclamation of Stanhope,
whose impatience and curiosity were painfully exercised by this
protracted conversation; for he had retreated from the window, at its
commencement, to avoid the possibility of hearing, what was not probably
intended to reach the ears of a third person. "Would any but a favored
lover," he thought, "be admitted to such an interview?" The idea was
insupportable; he traversed his apartment with perturbed and hasty
steps, and it was not till long after De Valette retired, that he sought
the repose of his pillow, and even then, in a state of mind which
completely banished slumber from his eyes.

When Stanhope looked out, on the following morning, he saw Luciè, alone
in a small garden, adjoining the house, busily employed in training some
flowers; and the painful impression of the last night was almost
forgotten, in the impulse which he felt to join her. He was chagrined to
meet De Valette, as he crossed a passage, but repressing a repugnance,
which he felt might be unjustly excited, he addressed him with his usual
cordiality, and they entered the garden together. Luciè's face was
turned from them, and she did not seem aware of their approach, till
startled by the voice of De Valette.

"You do not seem very industriously inclined," he said; "or are you
resting, to indulge the luxury of a morning reverie?"