He came back; but in a little ferment—­I hoped, I hoped, madam, as you were not in your own apartment, that I might, that I might have been—­

Wherever ladies are by themselves, it is a lady’s apartment, my lord, said she, with a haughtiness that sat better on her features, than they would upon almost any other woman’s.

He looked, as if he knew not whether he should stay or go.  Sit down, my lord, said I; we are not particularly engaged.  He came nearer, his hat under his arm, bowing to her, who sat as stately as a princess on her throne:  but yet looked disobliged.  You give yourself pretty airs, my lord—­don’t you?

Pretty airs, madam!—­Pretty airs!—­By my soul, I think, madam—­And with such a glow in your face, madam—­Taking his laced hat from under his arm, and, with an earnest motion, swinging it backwards and forwards, as unknowing what he did—­

What, sir, am I to be buffetted, sir?—­

He put his hat under his arm again—­Buffetted, madam!—­Would to
Heaven—­

What has Heaven to do with your odd ways, Lord G——?

I beg pardon for intruding, madam—­But I thought—­

That you had a privilege, sir—­But marriage itself, sir, shall not give you a privilege to break into my retirements.  You thought, sir—­You could not think—­So much the worse if you did—­

If I have really offended—­I will be more circumspect for the future—­I beg pardon, madam—­Miss Byron, I hope, will forgive me too.

He was going, in great discomposure, and with an air of angry humility.

Charlotte, whispered I, don’t be silly—­

Come, come, now you have broke in upon us, you may stay—­But another time, when you know me to be retired with a friend so dear to me, let it enter into your head, that no third person, unsent for, can be welcome.

Poor man!—­How he loves her!—­His countenance changed at once to the humble placid:  he looked as if he had rather be in fault than she.

Oh! how little did she make him look!

But he has often, as well as in this instance, let her see her power over him.  I am afraid she will use it.  I now see it is and will be his misfortune that she can vex him without being vexed herself:  and what may he expect, who can be treated with feigned displeasure, which, while it seems to be in earnest to him, will be a jest to his wife?

I was very angry with her, when we were alone; and told her, that she would be an enemy, I was afraid, of her own happiness.  But she only laughed at me:  Happiness, my dear! said she:  that only is happiness which we think so.  If I can be as happy in my way, as you can be in yours, shall I not pursue it?  Your happiness, child, is in the still life.  I love not a dead calm:  now a tempest, now a refreshing breeze, I shall know how to enjoy the difference—­My brother will not be here to turn jest into earnest; as might perhaps be the effect of his mediation—­But, heigh-ho, Harriet! that the first week were over, and I had got into my throne!