and society have great claims upon us; we ought not to injure the one, nor disregard the other. Could you bear to see your wife treated with contempt, as one whom nobody knew, as one who had no claims to distinction, but what your very great friends might allow her? Could you support the idea, that she whose genuine merit might entitle her to the first society, should be refused admittance among such, as in real worth she very far surpassed? No; I know you would feel such a degradation most painfully; and, though young men in the moment of passion, think they could sacrifice every thing to the object of it, yet, believe me, passion is but short-lived, and though your wife may yet retain your love and esteem, you will regret the loss of society—you will feel the insults offered to your wife, and you will both be unhappy." "Ah! my dear Marquis, (cried the Count) say no more. How happy are Englishmen! free from all those false prejudices, they can confer honour on whom they please, and the want of noble birth is no degradation where merit and character deserve esteem; but we are the victims to false notions, and from thence originates all that levity and vice for which we are censured by other nations." He walked away with a melancholy air: the Marquis felt for him, but national honour was in his opinion of more consequence than the gratification of a private individual how great soever the merit of the object.
The Count walked into the garden, his arms folded, his mind distrest, unknowing what he should, what he ought to do. Turning into a small alcove, he beheld Matilda, her head reclining on one hand, whilst with the other she dried the tears which fell on her face: they both started; she rose from her seat; he advanced, prevented her going and seated himself by her. Both were silent for a moment, at length Matilda, making a second effort to rise, exclaimed in a faint voice, "Bless me! I dare say I have made the family wait breakfast," and attempted to pass him.
