“This morning then,” said Corinne, “I will shew you the Pantheon and St Peter’s:  I had, indeed, some hope,” added she smiling, “that you would accept my offer to make the tour of Rome with you, so my horses are ready.  I have expected you; you have arrived; ’tis very well, let us set out.”  “Astonishing woman!” said Oswald; “Who then, art thou?  Whence hast thou derived so many opposite charms, which it would seem ought to exclude each other;—­sensibility, gaiety, profound reflection, external grace, freedom, and modesty?  Art thou an illusion? art thou some supernatural blessing, destined to make happy the life of him who is fortunate enough to meet with thee?” “Ah!” replied Corinne, “if I have it in my power to do you any service you must not think I will ever give up the merit of it.”  “Take care,” said Oswald, seizing Corinne’s hand with emotion; “take care what service it is you are about to render me.  For these two years the iron hand of affliction has closed up my heart; if your sweet presence has afforded me relief; if, while with you, I breathe again, what will become of me when once more abandoned to my destiny?—­What will become of me?” “Let us leave to time and to chance,” interrupted Corinne, “to decide whether this impression of a day, which I have produced upon you, will be longer than a day in its duration.  If there be a mutual sympathy between our souls, our mutual affection will not be transient.  Be that as it may, let us go and admire together all that can elevate our mind and our sentiments; we shall thus taste some moments of happiness.”

In finishing these words Corinne went down stairs, and Nelville followed her, astonished at her answer.  It seemed to him that she admitted the possibility of a half sentiment,—­a momentary attraction.  In short, he thought he perceived something like levity in the manner in which she had expressed herself, and he was hurt at it.

He placed himself, without saying a word, in Corinne’s carriage; who, guessing his thoughts, said to him, “I do not believe that the heart of man is so formed that he must always feel either no love at all or the most invincible passion.  There are beginnings of sentiment which a more profound examination may dissipate.  We flatter and then undeceive ourselves, and even the enthusiasm of which we are susceptible, if it renders the enchantment more rapid, may also cause coldness to succeed the more quickly.”  “You have, then, reflected deeply on the tender passion,” said Oswald with bitterness.  Corinne blushed at this word, and was silent for some moments; then resuming the conversation, with a striking mixture of frankness and dignity, “I do not believe,” said she, “that a woman of sensibility has ever arrived at the age of twenty-six years, without having known the illusion of love; but if never having been happy, if never having met the object who could merit all the affections of my heart, be any claim to interest in the bosom of man, I have a claim to yours.”  These words, and the accent with which Corinne pronounced them, dissipated a little, the cloud which had spread over the soul of Lord Nelville; nevertheless he said to himself:  “She is the most fascinating of women, but an Italian; and hers is not that timid, innocent heart, to herself unknown, which the young English lady that my father destined for me must possess.”