e, Clarence felt ashamed of himself; his cheek
burned like fire, and he involuntarily let go the fair hand which was
leaning upon his arm. However, the weaker our course the better face we
should put upon it, and Clarence, recovering his presence of mind, and
vainly hoping he had not been perceived, buried his face as well as he
was able in the fur collar of his cloak, and hurried on.

"You saw Lord Borodaile?" said the duke to La Meronville, as he handed
her into her carriage.

"Yes, I accidentally looked back after we had passed him, and then I saw
him."

"Looked back!" said the duke; "I wonder he did not turn you into a
pillar of salt."

"Fi donc!" cried La belle Meronville, tapping his grace playfully on the
arm, in order to do which she was forced to lean a little harder upon
Clarence's, which she had not yet relinquished--"Fi donc! Francois, chez
moi!"

"My carriage is just behind," said the duke. "You will go with me to La
Meronville's, of course?"

"Really, my dear duke," said Clarence, "I wish I could excuse myself
from this party. I have another engagement."

"Excuse yourself? and leave me to the mercy of Mademoiselle Caumartin,
who has the face of an ostrich, and talks me out of breath! Never, my
dear Linden, never! Besides, I want you to see how well I shall behave
to Trevanion. Here is the carriage. Entrez, mon cher."

And Clarence, weakly and foolishly (but he was very young and very
unhappy, and so, longing for an escape from his own thoughts) entered
the carriage, and drove to the supper party, in order to prevent the
Duke of Haverfield being talked out of breath by Mademoiselle Caumartin,
who had the face of an ostrich.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

Yet truth is keenly sought for, and the wind
Charged with rich words, poured out in thought's defence;
Whether the Church inspire that eloquence,
Or a Platonic piety, confined
To the sole temple of the inward mind;
And one there is who builds immortal lays,
Though doomed to tread in solitary ways;
Darkness before, and danger's voice behind!
Yet not alone--
WORDSWORTH.

London, thou Niobe, who sittest in stone, amidst thy stricken and fated
children; nurse of the desolate, that hidest in thy bosom the shame, the
sorrows, the sins of many sons; in whose arms the fallen and the outcast
shroud their distresses, and shelter from the proud man's contumely;
Epitome and Focus of the disparities and maddening contrast