Considering Conny knew I loved her, considering, indeed, that I had as good as proposed to her, I had rather expected that she would manifest some little degree of embarrassment on meeting my eyes, that she would colour up, perhaps, when I looked at her; in a word, that she would have exhibited by her manner a thorough consciousness of the tender experience we shared. Do you understand me, Eugenio? When you met Dorothea, after you had squeezed her hand, and muttered the statements you desired to make in her ear, you were quite satisfied to find her shy and even reserved, peeping at you askance when she thought you were not noticing, and receiving your observations--uttered in a very distant and polite tone of course, before company--with a peculiar smile and a remarkable little blush, both which your heart opened to receive, as the flower opens to the delicate dew, and both which were inexpressibly delicious, because they were unintelligible to all but you. Now Conny thrilled me with no such subtle and touching manifestations. She made no difference in her treatment of me. When my uncles returned, I got her into a corner near the piano, and talked cynicism. I was dreadfully sarcastic; sneered at everything; asked satirical questions with acidulated grins; quoted “Vanity Fair,” and was altogether fearfully bitter. She appeared sometimes amused and sometimes disconcerted by my remarks; but I won’t be sure that she heard everything I said. At last she asked me if I didn’t feel well? “Good gracious!” I exclaimed, “what a dreadful question! Of course I am well.” “You are bilious,” she said: “you don’t take enough exercise.” “I am not bilious. As to exercise, I hate walking.” “Then why don’t you talk cheerfully?” “Because you hate me,” I replied, giving her a ghastly look. “I thought I told you last night that I liked you?” “Liked!” I cried with immense contempt. “I had rather be hated than liked. I want to be loved,” I muttered in a voice resembling that with which Hamlet _père_ is used to address his son from under the stage. “You promised you would not revert to--to--that subject, until I gave you leave,” she exclaimed, reproachfully. “I can’t help it. I must speak.” “Do try to be patient, _dear_ Charlie,” she whispered in her most winning voice, with her sweetest smile. “I will,” I gasped. “But oh, don’t treat me as if I were only a nice young man.” She made me no answer, but letting slip her little hand, caught hold of my wrist, and gave it a squeeze. Eugenio, ’twas like taking chloroform. All heaven opened upon me. “Dinner is served,” said a servant at the door. I gave Conny my arm, and followed the others into the dining-room. END OF VOL I. CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS. TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.