Oh what a charming morning I spent!—­Tho’ my angel persisted in going to France, yet it was in a manner that made me love her, if possible, ten thousand times more than ever.—­Good God! had you seen how she look’d!—­But no matter now;—­I must forget her angelical sweetness.—­Forget did I say?—­No, by heaven and earth—­she lives in every corner of my heart.—­I wish I had told her my whole soul.—­I was going to tell her, if I had not been interrupted.—­It is too late now.—­She would not hear me:  I see by her manners she would not hear me.  She has learnt to look with indifference:—­even smiles with indifference.—­Why does she not frown?  That would be joy to what her smiles afford.—­I hate such smiles; they are darts dipp’d in poison.—­

Lord Allen said he heard I was going to be marry’d:—­What was that to him?—­Sir James look’d displeased.  To quiet his fears I assured him—­God!  I know not what I assured him—­something very foreign from my heart.

She blushed when Sir James asked, to whom?—­With what raptures did I behold her blushes!—­But she shrunk at my answer.—­I saw the colour leave her cheek, like a rose-bud fading beneath the hoary frost.

I will know my fate.—­Twill be with you in a few days,—­if Sir James should consent.—­What if he should consent?—­She is steeled against my vows—­my protestations;—­my words affect her not;—­the most tender assiduities are disregarded:—­she seems to attend to what I say, yet regards it not.

Where are those looks of preference fled,—­those expressive looks?—­I saw them not till now:—­it is their loss,—­it is their sad reverse that tells me what they were.  She turns not her head to follow my foot-steps at parting;—­or when I return, does not proclaim it by advancing pleasure tip-toe to the windows of her soul.—­No anxiety for my health!  No, she cares not what becomes of me.—­I complain’d of my head, said I was in great pain;—­heaven knows how true!  My complaints were disregarded.—­I attended her home.  She sung all the way; or if she talked, it was of music:—­not a word of my poor head;—­no charges to draw the glasses up going back.

There was a time, Molesworth—­there was a time, if my finger had but ached, it was, My Lord, you look ill.  Does not Lady Powis persuade you to have advice?  You are really too careless of your health.

Shall she be another’s?—­Yes; when I shrink at sight of what lies yonder,—­my sword, George;—­that shall prevent her ever being another’s.

Tell me you believe she will be mine:—­it may help to calm my disturbed mind.—­Be sure you do not hint she will be another’s.

Have I told you, Mr. Powis is coming home?—­I cannot recollect whether I have or not;—­neither can I pain myself to look back.