iness, in the citadel of
her virtue. She surrendered, she thought, on terms; and in yielding her
heart to the young Duke, though never for a moment blind to her conduct,
yet memory whispered extenuation, and love added all that was necessary.

Our hero (we are for none of your perfect heroes) did not behave much
better than her husband. The difference between them was, Sir Lucius
Grafton's character was formed, and formed for evil; while the Duke
of St. James, when he became acquainted with Lady Aphrodite, possessed
none. Gallantry was a habit, in which he had been brought up. To protest
to woman what he did not believe, and to feign what he did not feel,
were, as he supposed, parts in the character of an accomplished
gentleman; and as hitherto he had not found his career productive of
any misery, we may perhaps view his conduct with less severity. But at
length he approaches, not a mere woman of the world, who tries to delude
him into the idea that he is the first hero of a romance that has been
a hundred times repeated. He trembles at the responsibility which he
has incurred by engaging the feelings of another. In the conflict of
his emotions, some rays of moral light break upon his darkened soul.
Profligacy brings its own punishment, and he feels keenly that man is
the subject of sympathy, and not the slave of self-love.

This remorse protracts a connection which each day is productive of more
painful feelings; but the heart cannot be overstrung, and anxiety
ends in callousness. Then come neglect, remonstrance, explanations,
protestations, and, sooner or later, a catastrophe.

But love is a dangerous habit, and when once indulged, is not easily
thrown off, unless you become devout, which is, in a manner, giving the
passion a new direction. In Catholic countries, it is surprising how
many adventures end in a convent. A dame, in her desperation, flies to
the grate, which never reopens; but in Protestant regions she has time
to cool, and that's the deuce; so, instead of taking the veil, she takes
a new lover.

Lady Aphrodite had worked up her mind and the young Duke to a step the
very mention of which a year before would have made him shudder. What an
enchanter is Passion! No wonder Ovid, who was a judge, made love so much
connected with his Metamorphoses. With infinite difficulty she had dared
to admit the idea of flying with his Grace; but when the idea was once
admitted, when she really had, once or twice, constan