you were born to fill and have been reared to improve,--this youth in
whom there is nothing but the lap-dog's merit, sleekness and beauty! Ay,
frown,--the frown betrays you; you love him!"

"And if I do?" said Lucretia, raising her tall form to its utmost height,
and haughtily facing her inquisitor,--"and, if I do, what then? Is he
unworthy of me? Converse with him, and you will find that the noble form
conceals as high a spirit. He wants but wealth: I can give it to him.
If his temper is gentle, I can prompt and guide it to fame and power. He
at least has education and eloquence and mind. What has Mr. Vernon?"

"Mr. Vernon? I did not speak of him!"

Lucretia gazed hard upon the Provencal's countenance,--gazed with that
unpitying air of triumph with which a woman who detects a power over the
heart she does not desire to conquer exults in defeating the reasons that
heart appears to her to prompt. "No," she said in a calm voice, to which
the venom of secret irony gave stinging significance,--"no, you spoke not
of Mr. Vernon; you thought that if I looked round, if I looked nearer, I
might have a fairer choice."

"You are cruel, you are unjust," said Dalibard, falteringly. If I once
presumed for a moment, have I repeated my offence? But," he added
hurriedly, "in me,--much as you appear to despise me,--in me, at least,
you would have risked none of the dangers that beset you if you seriously
set your heart on Mainwaring."

"You think my uncle would be proud to give my hand to M. Olivier
Dalibard?"