the fancy supplies the place of the heart. And if I give him an
inspiration, it will be an equal luxury to him whether his lyre be
strung to hope or disappointment. The sweetness of his verses will
compensate to him for any bitterness in actual life."

"There are two kinds of love," answered Maltravers,--"love and
self-love; the wounds of the last are often most incurable in those who
appear least vulnerable to the first. Ah, Lady Florence, were I
privileged to play the monitor, I would venture on one warning, however
much it might offend yon."

"And that is--"

"To forbear coquetry."

Maltravers smiled as he spoke, but it was gravely--and at the same time
he moved gently away. But Lady Florence laid her hand on his arm.

"Mr. Maltravers," said she, very softly, and with a kind of faltering in
her tone, "am I wrong to say that I am anxious for your good opinion?
Do not judge me harshly. I am soured, discontented, unhappy. I have no
sympathy with the world. These men whom I see around me--what are they?
the mass of them unfeeling and silken egotists--ill-judging,
ill-educated, well-dressed: the few who are called distinguished--how
selfish in their ambition, how passionless in their pursuits! Am I to
be blamed if I sometimes exert a power over such as these, which rather
proves my scorn of them than my own vanity?"

"I have no right to argue with you."