It is not that Sophy is indifferent to genuine proofs of love; on the contrary she is imperious and exacting; she would rather not be loved at all than be loved half-heartedly.  Hers is the noble pride of worth, conscious of its own value, self-respecting and claiming a like honour from others.  She would scorn a heart that did not recognise the full worth of her own; that did not love her for her virtues as much and more than for her charms; a heart which did not put duty first, and prefer it to everything.  She did not desire a lover who knew no will but hers.  She wished to reign over a man whom she had not spoilt.  Thus Circe, having changed into swine the comrades of Ulysses, bestowed herself on him over whom she had no power.

Except for this sacred and inviolable right, Sophy is very jealous of her own rights; she observes how carefully Emile respects them, how zealously he does her will; how cleverly he guesses her wishes, how exactly he arrives at the appointed time; she will have him neither late nor early; he must arrive to the moment.  To come early is to think more of himself than of her; to come late is to neglect her.  To neglect Sophy, that could not happen twice.  An unfounded suspicion on her part nearly ruined everything, but Sophy is really just and knows how to atone for her faults.

They were expecting us one evening; Emile had received his orders.  They came to meet us, but we were not there.  What has become of us?  What accident have we met with?  No message from us!  The evening is spent in expectation of our arrival.  Sophy thinks we are dead; she is miserable and in an agony of distress; she cries all the night through.  In the course of the evening a messenger was despatched to inquire after us and bring back news in the morning.  The messenger returns together with another messenger sent by us, who makes our excuses verbally and says we are quite well.  Then the scene is changed; Sophy dries her tears, or if she still weeps it is for anger.  It is small consolation to her proud spirit to know that we are alive; Emile lives and he has kept her waiting.

When we arrive she tries to escape to her own room; her parents desire her to remain, so she is obliged to do so; but deciding at once what course she will take she assumes a calm and contented expression which would deceive most people.  Her father comes forward to receive us saying, “You have made your friends very uneasy; there are people here who will not forgive you very readily.”  “Who are they, papa,” said Sophy with the most gracious smile she could assume.  “What business is that of yours,” said her father, “if it is not you?” Sophy bent over her work without reply.  Her mother received us coldly and formally.  Emile was so confused he dared not speak to Sophy.  She spoke first, inquired how he was, asked him to take a chair, and pretended so cleverly that the poor young fellow, who as yet knew nothing of the language of angry passions, was quite deceived by her apparent indifference, and ready to take offence on his own account.