It was a change external, not internal. The man was the same; the demeanour was altered. The same vehement passions were upon him which had always moved him; but their operation had taken a different direction. The first day he had passed at Mr. Tracy's, he had given his arm to Emily, to take her in to dinner, and he had thought her exceedingly beautiful. The high, pensive character of her countenance, the voluptuous beauty of her form, the grace of all her movements, even the coldness of her manner towards himself, had all excited--however opposite in their apparent tendency--first admiration, and then passion. He saw her every day; and, with the uncontrollable impetuosity of his nature, he hurried on, pressing his suit upon her, only restrained from declaring it openly by the extreme brevity of their acquaintance. Every time he beheld her, his heart seemed on fire; every time she spoke to him, her words were enchantment that he could not resist; every time he touched her hand, it sent the blood thrilling through his veins; and day by day, and night by night he drank in draughts of love from her eyes, which seemed to intoxicate and leave him no command over himself. It was, in short, more like the passion of some warm eastern land than of our cold climate; and there was no folly, hardly any impropriety, that he would not have committed to call her his with as short a delay as possible. Emily, indeed, shrank from his fierce and fiery advances, but as he had yet said nothing, it was impossible to check them as far as she could have wished. Still she retired from his pursuit; but her very hesitation and withdrawal seemed to inspire him with fresh vehemence and ardour; and the strong passion that he felt, all animal as it was, seemed to grow more and more upon him hour after hour. Mr. Tracy saw the whole with some uneasiness; for he saw no sign of his daughter returning the feelings which she had evidently inspired in Sir William Winslow. He was not at all a man inclined to sacrifice his daughter; nor was he indeed one, in any ordinary circumstances, to thwart her inclinations; nor did he feel at all sure, in the abstract, that Sir William was the man he would himself have chosen for her. Not that the latter made himself by any means disagreeable; far from it. The bird plumes his feathers in the eyes of his mate; the tabby cat washes her face, and smooths her fur for the eyes of her companion, according to Pope; and the intensity of his feelings, by the unaffected course of nature, caused Sir William Winslow to display all that was good or bright in his character, all that might captivate or attract. He was witty, he was brilliant, he was gay; and the depth of his passion gave a vigour and profoundness to his thoughts, a figurative splendour to his expressions, which might well have carried away any heart not armed and prepared against him. He was certainly very handsome, too;