"Is it possible, sir," said Belinda, "that you should suspect me of such
wretched hypocrisy, as to affect to admire what I am incapable of
feeling?"

"You misunderstand--you totally misunderstand me. Hypocrisy! No; there is
not a woman upon earth whom I believe to be so far above all hypocrisy,
all affectation. But I imagined--I feared--"

As he spoke these last words he was in some confusion, and hastily turned
over the prints in a portfolio which lay upon the table. Belinda's eye was
caught by an engraving of Lady Delacour in the character of the comic
muse. Mr. Vincent did not know the intimacy that had subsisted between her
ladyship and Miss Portman--she sighed from the recollection of Clarence
Hervey, and of all that had passed at the masquerade.

"What a contrast!" said Mr. Vincent, placing the print of Lady Delacour
beside the picture of Lady Anne Percival. "What a contrast! Compare their
pictures--compare their characters--compare--"

"Excuse me," interrupted Belinda; "Lady Delacour was once my friend, and I
do not like to make a comparison so much to her disadvantage. I have never
seen any woman who would not suffer by a comparison with Lady Anne
Percival."

"I have been more fortunate, I _have_ seen one--one equally worthy of
esteem--admiration--love."

Mr. Vincent's voice faltered in pronouncing the word love; yet Belinda,
prepossessed by the idea that he was attached to some creole lady, simply
answered, without looking up from her drawing, "You are indeed very