I read over the letter twice. What struck me at first was the sublime and inexplicable devotion of Lord Falmouth, who, to save me from the idleness he considered fatal to my happiness, invited me to share his voyages, his studies, and even the career that he hoped I would be successful in. What astonished me very much (indeed, it almost offended me), was the derisive exaggeration in which he spoke of my merits, which, according to him, were quite sufficient to make a cabinet minister of me, or an ambassador, at least. Unfortunately, I was not born to comprehend such magnificent exaltation of friendship; for Falmouth's offer was so exorbitant, so out of proportion and above any proof I had been able to give him of my affection, that several times I said: "Can it really be to me that he makes such an offer? What have I ever done to deserve it?" If what I had done for him was quite unworthy such devotion, what motive could he have in making me such an offer,--so much for so little? It was not without a hard struggle that I gave myself up to such questions, for I could foresee a terrible access of suspicion. Several times I attempted to turn my thoughts away from the fatal declivity towards which they were dragging me, but I felt myself approaching nearer and nearer the fatal abyss of doubt. Overcome with alarm, I was on the point of going to Henry, and begging him to save me from myself. I would ask him to explain all that was beyond my comprehension in his admirable devotion, to lift me to his own level, for I was so unused to this radiant and all-powerful friendship, which I could not gaze on without becoming dizzy. But a false and miserable shame held me back. I thought it weak and cowardly, and a humiliating proof of inferiority, when it would have been a touching proof of my confidence and reliance. In spite of myself, I had the horrible feeling that my affection for Falmouth would share the same fate of all my former affections. This friendship had attained its greatest development, it was about to fill my life with delight, enlarge my future. It was fated that I should destroy it. I was possessed by a strange sensation,--it was as if my spirit were falling rapidly from an ideal sphere, peopled by the most enchanting beings, towards a dark and boundless desert. A physical comparison will explain this moral impression. The wings that had so long sustained me in the region of divine faith suddenly failed me, and I fell on the arid and desolate soil of analysis in the midst of the ruins of my first hopes. The faith I had until now preserved of the purity and holiness of friendship was to augment these melancholy ruins. The more I pondered on Falmouth's admirable proposition, the more I admired its careful, almost paternal solicitude, the less worthy of it I found myself.