“And I suppose you believe him now,” cried Lord William, laughing, as he bowed to Emily.

His sister laughed in her turn, but shook her head, in the confidence of conjugal affection.

“It is all conjecture, for the Colonel said he had never enjoyed the pleasure of meeting Miss Moseley, so I will not boast of what my powers might have done; Miss Moseley,” continued Lady Laura, blushing slightly at her inclination to talk of an absent husband, so lately her lover, “I hope to have the pleasure of presenting Colonel Denbigh to you soon.”

“I think,” said Emily, with a strong horror of deception, and a mighty struggle to suppress her feelings, “Colonel Denbigh was mistaken in saying that we had never met; he was of material service to me once, and I owe him a debt of gratitude that I only wish I could properly repay.”

Lady Laura listened in surprise; but as Emily paused, she could not delicately, as his wife, remind her further of the obligation, by asking what the service was, and hesitating a moment, continued—­

“Henry quite made you the subject of conversation amongst us; Lord Chatterton too, who visited us for a day, was equally warm in his eulogiums.  I really thought they created a curiosity in the Duke and Pendennyss to behold their idol.”

“A curiosity that would be ill rewarded in its indulgence,” said Emily, abashed by the personality of the discourse.

“So says the modesty of Miss Moseley,” said the Duke of Derwent, in the peculiar tone which distinguished the softer keys of Denbigh’s voice.  Emily’s heart beat quick as she heard them, and she was afterwards vexed to remember with how much pleasure she had listened to this opinion of the duke.  Was it the sentiment, or was it the voice?  She, however, gathered strength to answer, with a dignity that repressed further praises:—­

“Your grace is willing to divest me of what little I possess.”

“Pendennyss is a man of a thousand,” continued Lady Laura, with the privilege of a married woman.  “I do wish he would join us at Bath—­is there no hope, duke?”

“I am afraid not,” replied his grace:  “he keeps himself immured in Wales with his sister, who is as much of a hermit as he is himself.”

“There was a story of an inamorata in private somewhere,” cried the marquess; “why at one time it was even said he was privately married to her.”

“Scandal, my lord,” said the duke, gravely:  “Pendennyss is of unexceptionable morals, and the lady you mean is the widow of Major Fitzgerald, whom you knew.  Pendennyss never sees her, though by accident he was once of very great service to her.”

Mrs. Wilson breathed freely again, as she heard this explanation, and thought if the Marquess knew all, how differently would he judge Pendennyss, as well as others.

“Oh!  I have the highest opinion of Lord Pendennyss,” cried the Marquess.

The Moseleys were not sorry that the usual hour of retiring put an end to the conversation and their embarrassment.