CHAPTER VII.
It matters not its history—Love has wings,
Like lightning, swift and fatal; and it springs,
Like a wild flower, where it is least expected;
Existing whether cherished or rejected.
A mystery art thou!—thou mighty one!
We speak thy name in beauty; yet we shun
To say thou art our guest; for who will own
His life thy empire, and his heart thy throne?
There was an absolute mixture of pique and disappointment as Lady Marchmont passed on; but they had scarcely reached the open lawn before she saw the stranger talking to Lady Mary Wortley Montague, who was smiling her very sweetest, and, worse, looking her very best. An ill-defined dislike, a little like jealousy, arose in Henrietta's mind; a little, however, mitigated by observing that the gentleman in-
