A short time after her arrival at Lady Delacour's, Belinda began to see
through the thin veil with which politeness covers domestic
misery.--Abroad, and at home, Lady Delacour was two different persons.
Abroad she appeared all life, spirit, and good humour--at home, listless,
fretful, and melancholy; she seemed like a spoiled actress off the stage,
over-stimulated by applause, and exhausted by the exertions of supporting
a fictitious character.--When her house was filled with well-dressed
crowds, when it blazed with lights, and resounded with music and dancing,
Lady Delacour, in the character of Mistress of the Revels, shone the soul
and spirit of pleasure and frolic: but the moment the company retired,
when the music ceased, and the lights were extinguishing, the spell was
dissolved.

She would sometimes walk up and down the empty magnificent saloon,
absorbed in thoughts seemingly of the most painful nature.

For some days after Belinda's arrival in town she heard nothing of Lord
Delacour; his lady never mentioned his name, except once accidentally, as
she was showing Miss Portman the house, she said, "Don't open that
door--those are only Lord Delacour's apartments."--The first time Belinda
ever saw his lordship, he was dead drunk in the arms of two footmen, who
were carrying him up stairs to his bedchamber: his lady, who was just
returned from Ranelagh, passed by him on the landing-place with a look of
sovereign contempt.

"What is the matter?--Who is this?" said Belinda.

"Only the body of my Lord Delacour," said her ladyship: "his bearers have
brought it up the wrong staircase. Take it down again, my good friends:
let his lordship go his _own way_. Don't look so shocked and amazed,