confidante with Mrs. Courtenaye. Constance had, however, too much good taste, as well as good feeling, for this; she had betrayed her jealousy, not confessed it. Still, this was enough for her soi-disant friend, who went on torturing her with stories about Lady Marchmont's powers of fascination, and Lady Marchmont's coquetry.
"You do not know," said she, after a long visit, which left Constance pale as a statue, her lip feverish with anxiety, and eyes filled with tears which she would not shed: "you do not know what a dangerous person Lady Marchmont is! I should not, my sweet young friend, warn you so much against her, but that I take the deepest interest in your happiness!"
"You are too kind!" sighed Constance.
"You know your husband is a very young man, and a very handsome one—beauty is a dangerous gift!"
"Would I could try its danger!" thought Mrs. Courtenaye, as she caught her own wan and languid countenance in the opposite glance.
