for surely if he could bear this, he
need never fear himself again.

So passed the hour; and Amabel was heartily glad when the debate was
closed by Arnaud's coming for orders. Guy went with him; Amabel began to
collect her goods; and Philip, after a few moments' reflection, spoke in
the half-compassionate, half-patronizing manner with which he used, now
and then, to let fall a few crumbs of counsel or commendation for silly
little Amy.

'Well, Amy, you yielded very amiably, and that is the only way. You will
always find it best to submit.'

He got no further in his intended warning against the dissipations of
Venice, for her eyes were fixed on him at first with a look of extreme
wonder. Then her face assumed an expression of dignity, and gently, but
gravely, she said, 'I think you forget to whom you are speaking.'

The gentlemanlike instinct made him reply, 'I beg your pardon'--and
there he stopped, as much taken by surprise as if a dove had flown in
his face. He actually was confused; for in very truth, he had, after a
fashion, forgotten that she was Lady Morville, not the cousin Amy with
whom Guy's character might be freely discussed. He had often presumed as
far with his aunt; but she, though always turning the conversation, had
never given him a rebuff. Amabel had not done; and in her soft voice,
firmly, though not angrily, she spoke on. 'One thing I wish to say,
because we shall never speak on this subject again, and I was always
afraid of you before. You have always misunderstood him, I might almost
say, chosen to misunderstand him. You have tried his temper more than
any one, and never appreciated the struggles that have subdued it. It
is not because I am his wife that I say this--indeed I am not sure it
becomes me to say it; yet I cannot bear that you should not be told of
it, because you think he acts out of enmity to you. You little know
how your friendship has been his first desire--how he has striven for
it--how, after all you have done and written, he defended you with
all his might when those at home were angry--how he sought you out on
purpose to try to be real cordial friends'

Philip's face had grown rigid, and chiefly at the words, 'those at home
were angry.' 'It is not I that prevent that friendship,' said he: 'it is
his own want of openness. My opinion has never changed.'

'No; I know it has never changed' said Amy, in a tone of sorrowful
displeasure. 'Whenever it does, you will be sorry you h