"Delights were still remaining--hate--shame--rage--_I can't tell what_, Comes to me at their memory; none that, _more or less_, was not The soul's _unconscious incest_, on creations self-begot." He still continues to doat on Lilian. "Oh friend, if you had seen her! heard her speaking, felt her grace, When serious looks seem'd filling with the smiles which, in a space, Broke, sweet as Sabbath sunshine, and lit up her _shady_ face. "Try to conceive her image--does it make your brain reel round? But all of this is over. Well, friend--various signs (I found Too late on rumination) then and thenceforth did abound, "Wherefrom--but that all lovers look too closely to see clear-- I might have gather'd matter fit for just and jealous fear. From her face, _the nameless something_ now began to disappear. "What I felt for her I often told her boldly to her face; _Blushes used to blush at blushes flushing on in glowing chace!_ But latterly she listen'd, bending full of bashful grace. "It was to hide those blushes, I thought then, _but I suspect It was to hide their absence_." How great this writer is on the subject of blushing we shall have another opportunity of showing.--(See Lady Mabel's shoulders, in the poem of Sir Hubert.) Meanwhile, the fair deceiver is now undergoing a course of French novels, under the tuition of young Winton. The consequence was, "_Her voice grew louder_"--no great harm in that-- "Her voice grew louder--losing the much meaning it once bore, _The passion in her carriage_, though it every day grew more, Was now the same to all men--and that was not so before." We suppose that there was now "heavy passion in her walk," whoever the man might be that approached her. "And grosser signs, _far grosser_ I remember now; but these I miss'd of course, and counted _with those light anomalies, Too frequent to disturb us into searching for their keys_." These misgivings, which might have ripened into suspicions, are suddenly swept away by a stroke of duplicity on the part of his mistress, inconceivable in any woman except one inclined naturally, and without any prompting, to practise the profoundest artifices of vice. "Even the dreadful glimpses now began to fade away, And disappear'd completely, when my Lilian asked one day, If I knew what reason Winton had to make so long a stay "In England--'For,' said Lilian, with untroubled countenance, 'Winton of course has told you of the love he left in France.' I seized her hand, and kiss'd it--joy had left no utterance." Winton, according to the account of the false Lilian, having _a love_ in France, could not, of course be supposed to be paying court to her. Thus the lover is thrown off the scent, and his doubts are entirely laid asleep. He is again in the seventh heavens of assured love, and continues thus:--