this as an error of my judgment, and not of my heart," when Lady Delacour
burst into the room, exclaiming, in a tone of gaiety, "Tragedy or comedy,
Belinda? The masquerade dresses are come. But how's this?" added she,
looking full in Belinda's face--"tears in the eyes! blushes in the cheeks!
tremors in the joints! and letters shuffling away! But, you novice of
novices, how awkwardly shuffled!--A niece of Mrs. Stanhope's, and so
unpractised a shuffler!--And is it credible she should tremble in this
ridiculous way about a love-letter or two?"

"No love-letters, indeed, Lady Delacour," said Belinda, holding the paper
fast, as her ladyship, half in play, half in earnest, attempted to snatch
it from her.

"No love-letters! then it must be treason; and see it I must, by all
that's good, or by all that's bad--I see the name of Delacour!"--and her
ladyship absolutely seized the letters by force, in spite of all Belinda's
struggles and entreaties.

"I beg, I request, I conjure you not to read it!" cried Miss Portman,
clasping her hands. "Read mine, read mine, if you _must_, but don't read
my aunt Stanhope's--Oh! I beg, I entreat, I conjure you!" and she threw
herself upon her knees.

"You beg! you entreat! you conjure! Why, this is like the Duchess de
Brinvilliers, who wrote on her paper of poisons, 'Whoever finds this, I
entreat, I conjure them, in the name of more saints than I can remember,
not to open the paper any farther.'--What a simpleton, to know so little
of the nature of curiosity!"

As she spoke, Lady Delacour opened Mrs. Stanhope's letter, read it from