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Belinda imagined that her ladyship still retained some displeasure from the conversation that had passed the preceding night, and the first time that she was alone with Lady Delacour, she again touched upon the subject, in hopes of softening or convincing her.
The dark damp night was coming and he longed to spend it in the bars, drinking with his friends amid the glare of gas and the clatter of glasses. He got out the Delacour correspondence and passed out of the office. He hoped Mr. Alleyne would not discover that the last two letters were missing. The moist pungent perfume lay all the way up to Mr. Alleyne's room.
Belinda had been charmed by Lady Delacour, who was the most agreeable, the most fascinating person she had ever beheld; and to be a visitor at her house was a delightful privilege. But, a short time after her arrival, she began to see through the thin veil with which politeness covers domestic misery.
Margaret Delacour, who had promised her ladyship a visit; and to go to Twickenham would be a formidable journey to an infirm old lady, who seldom stirred out of her house. Whatever displeasure Lady Delacour felt towards her friend Belinda, on account of her coldness to Mr. Hervey, and her steadiness to Mr. Vincent, had by this time subsided.
Now, have we not talked enough on this, to me, most painful subject? My Lucy and I were one in heart and deed. 'Alas, alas! said Miss Delacour. 'How hard it is to get men to understand! I knew Lucy longer than you. I brought her up; I trained her. The good that was in her she owed to me.
"God forbid!" said Clarence Hervey. "The man," resumed Lord Delacour, "must, in my opinion, be very superior indeed who is deserving of Belinda Portman. Oh, Mr. Hervey, you do not you cannot know her merit, as I do.
Belinda was convinced that, when Lady Delacour had once tasted the pleasures of domestic life, she would not easily return to that dissipation which she had followed from habit, and into which she had first been driven by a mixture of vanity and despair.
The silenced voice spoke no more. The play was a great success. Delacour, who had recently returned from America, was the making of it. Lenore was the first to acknowledge it, though his success was at her expense. Her part seemed only as a foil to the sombre splendour of his. The play ran and ran. Delacour made no further effort to speak to Marion. He avoided her systematically.
"No," said Lady Delacour; "no it is too late: I will never condescend in my last moments to beg for that affection to which it may be thought I have forfeited my natural claim." Pride, anger, and sorrow, struggled in her countenance as she spoke. She turned her face from Belinda, and walked out of the room with dignity.
"Blue and white then it shall be," said Lord Delacour. "Nay, Miss Portman has a better taste than I have; and she says black and orange, my lord." "Then you'll have it black and orange, will you?" said Lord Delacour. "Just as you please," said Lady Delacour, and no more passed.
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