which you ascribe to her
and suppose devoted to yourself. She is evidently fond of conquest. She
sports with the victims she makes. Her vanity dupes others, perhaps to
be duped itself at last. I will not say more to you.

"Yours,
E. MALTRAVERS."

"Hurrah!" cried Ferrers, as he threw down the letter, and rubbed his
hands with delight. "I little thought, when I schemed for this letter,
that chance would make it so inestimably serviceable. There is less
to alter than I thought for--the clumsiest botcher in the world could
manage it. Let me look again. Hem, hem--the first phrase to alter is
this: 'I know her enough to feel deep solicitude and anxiety for _your_
happiness if centred in a nature so imperious and vain'--scratch
out 'your,' and put 'my.' All the rest good, good--till we come
to 'affections which you ascribe to her, and suppose devoted to
_yourself_'--for '_yourself_' write '_myself_'--the rest will do. Now,
then, the date--we must change it to the present month, and the work is
done. I wish that Italian blockhead would come. If I can but once make
an irreparable breach between her and Maltravers, I think I cannot fail
of securing his place; her pique, her resentment, will hurry her into
taking the first who offers, by way of revenge. And by Jupiter, even if
I fail (which I am sure I shall not), it will be something to keep Flory
as lady paramount for a duke of our own party. I shall gain immensely
by such a connection; but I lose everything and gain nothing by her
marrying Maltravers--of opposite politics too--whom I begin to hate
like poison. But no duke shall have her--Florence Ferrers, the only
alliteration I ever liked--yet it would sound rough in poetry."

Lumley then deliberately drew towards him his inkstand--"No
penknife!--Ah, true, I never mend pens--sad waste--must send out for
one." He rang the bell, ordered a penknife to be purchased, and the
servant was still out when a knock at the door was heard, and in a
minute more Cesarini entered.

"Ah," said Lumley, assuming a melancholy air, "I am glad that you are
arrived; you will excuse my having written to you so unceremoniously.
You received my note--sit down, pray--and how are you? you look
delicate--can I offer you anything?"

"Wine," said Cesarini, laconically, "wine; your climate requires wine."

Here the servant entered with the penknife, and was ordered to bring
wine and sandwiches. Lumley then conversed lightly on different matt