"Quite down? Then we may conclude that my friend Mrs. Luttridge is not yet come to _Rantipole_. Rantipole, my dear," continued Lady Delacour, turning to Miss Portman, "is the name of Harriot Freke's villa in Kent. However strange it may sound to your ears and mine, I can assure you the name has _made fortune_ amongst a certain description of wits. And candour must allow that, if not elegant, it is appropriate; it gives a just idea of the manners and way of life of the place, for every thing at Rantipole is rantipole. But I am really concerned, my lord, you should have ridden yourself down in this way for nothing. Why did not you get better intelligence before you set out? I am afraid you feel the loss of Champfort. Why did not you contrive to learn for certain, my dear good lord, whether _the Luttridge_ was at Rantipole, before you set out on this wild goose chase?"
"My dear good lady," replied Lord Delacour, assuming a degree of spirit which startled her as much as it became him, "why do you not get better intelligence before you suspect me of being a brute and a liar? Did not I promise you yesterday, that I would break with _the Luttridge_, as you call her? and how could you imagine that the instant afterwards, just at the time I was wrung to the soul, as you know I was--how could you imagine I would leave you to go to Rantipole, or to any woman upon earth?"
"Oh, my lord! I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon a thousand times," cried Lady Delacour, rising with much emotion; and, going towards him with a sudden impulse, she kissed his forehead.
"And so you ought to beg my pardon," said Lord Delacour, in a faltering voice, but without moving his posture.
"You will acknowledge you left me, however, my lord? That is clear."
"Left you! Yes, so I did; to ride all over the country in search of a house that would suit you. For what else did you think I _could_ leave you at such a time as this?"
Lady Delacour again stooped, and leaned her arm upon his shoulder.
"I wish to Heaven, my dear," said his lordship, shrinking as he put away her hand, which still held Clarence Hervey's letters, "I wish to Heaven, my dear, you would not hold those abominable perfumed papers just under my very nose. You know I cannot stand perfumes."