Fitzhenry pressed her hand, which he held still more closely, and continued—“It seemed to me to be all a concerted plan to torment me; my momentary trance of admiration was dispelled, and was succeeded by feelings very opposite. You then appeared to me to endeavour, by old and hacknied arts of coquetry, to attract my attention: you fell almost entirely into my arms; you laid your head on my shoulder, and complained of faintness. I cannot describe the strange mixture of feelings which at that moment took possession of me—for though, even then I fancied I disliked you, yet, I verily believe regret and disappointment were uppermost on discovering (as I thought I then did) the common-place, artful nature of your character. To extricate myself from you was, however, my first object; and, under pretext of gallant attention, I directly left the room to procure a glass of water. “In truth, your indisposition was evidently not feigned, for you were as pale as death; but in my vexation I would not own that even to myself. I was in a devil of a humour all that evening. The next day Moore made that foolish piece of work about the brooch, (which circumstance, by the bye, I still don’t comprehend); however, I know well that I wrote you some _impertinence_. What, I don’t recollect, and I suspect I had better not remember. It seemed to me that you and Moore were in a league to plague and provoke me; and I hated you both most cordially. I felt it was impossible to go on in this way; and, to put an end to the whole thing, I pretended sudden and violent zeal for the welfare of my country, and announced my intention to go early to town, to attend parliament. But it was not politics which took me there; nor did I, as I believe I basely let you imagine, pass my days and nights in the House of Commons. “But my conscience was perfectly at rest, for your conduct then seemed to sanction mine. You plunged madly into dissipation, and for days together, although living under the same roof, we often did not meet. I believe I again gave a sigh when I thought how I had been mistaken in your character, for I had fancied there was, at least, nothing of frivolity in it, and had frequently been forced to confess to myself, that had I been free, and to choose one who would have suited me as a wife, (barring your supposed want of feeling and tenderness of nature,) I should have chosen you. On the whole, however, I rejoiced at your apparent levity of disposition. I felt as if I thus regained my liberty, and that your follies excused my faults. It seemed to me that it was by mutual consent that we then each went our own way. But mine was no longer one of pleasantness. I felt—and yet the feeling was pain—I felt I did not love as I had done. I saw her as she was, wanting all that beauty of innocence, of virtue, which you so eminently possessed; but, still infatuated, I sought her society although the charm was gone.