cruelty had he decided upon her marriage!—her affections not only unconsulted, but derided; his own ambition the sole consideration to which her happiness was to be sacrificed, and sacrificed as a thing of nought—not to be weighed for a moment against his own marquisate and the future honours of his line. "A few kind looks," thought she, "A few encouraging words, a little, a very little love, and I should have been so grateful! and grateful I should still be, for I am at least spared the struggles of a divided duty."
Francesca returned to the gay circle in the Castle, somewhat more silent than her wont, and with eye more downcast—her soul sought to brood over its own sweet thoughts; but there was a flush of beautiful delight upon her face, and her mouth relaxed with an unconscious smile.
"The dews of the evening have been a very bath of beauty!" whispered the Duke of Buckingham.
Francesca blushed, and the Duke thought it was at his own compliment.
"I am making some progress," was his agreeable reflection. "I observe that she does not blush at flattery in general; she therefore blushes because I flatter. Confusion is love's first symptom."
