 impart her felicity to all around her, but chiefly to Belinda, who had the strongest claims upon her gratitude, and the warmest place in her affections. Belinda never made her friend feel the weight of any obligation, and consequently Lady Delacour's gratitude was a voluntary pleasure—not an expected duty. Nothing could be more delightful to Miss Portman than thus to feel herself the object at once of esteem, affection, and respect; to see that she had not only been the means of saving her friend's life, but that the influence she had obtained over her mind was likely to be so permanently beneficial both to her and to her family.
Belinda did not take all the merit of this reformation to herself: she was most willing to share it, in her own imagination, not only with Dr. X——and Mr. Moreton, but with poor Clarence Hervey. She was pleased to observe that Lady Delacour never omitted any occasion of doing justice to his merit, and she loved her for that generosity, which sometimes passed the bounds of justice in her eulogiums. But Belinda was careful to preserve her consistency, and to guard her heart from the dangerous effect of these enthusiastic praises; and as Lady Delacour was now sufficiently re-established in her health, she announced her intention of returning immediately to Oakly-park, according to her promise to Lady Anne Percival and to Mr. Vincent.
"But, my dear," said Lady Delacour, "one week more is all I ask from you—may not friendship ask such a sacrifice from love?"
"You expect, I know," said Miss Portman, ingenuously, "that before the end of that time Mr. Hervey will be here."
"True. And have you no friendship for him?" said Lady Delacour with an arch smile, "or is friendship for every man in the creation, one Augustus Vincent always excepted, prohibited by the statutes of Oakly-park?"
"By the statutes of Oakly-park nothing is forbidden," said Belinda, "but what reason—"
"Reason! Oh, I have done if you go to reason! You are invulnerable to the light shafts of wit, I know, when you are cased in this heavy armour of reason; Cupid himself may strain his bow, and exhaust his quiver upon you in vain. But have a care—you cannot live in armour all your life—lay it aside but for a moment, and the little bold urchin will make it his prize. Remember, in one of Raphael's pictures, Cupid creeping into the armour of the conqueror of the
