It grieves me, more than I can express, to see her suffering as she does. I am now convinced that she has reason to be unhappy; and what is worse, I do not see what course she can follow to recover her happiness. All her forbearance, all her patience, all her sweet temper, I perceive, are useless, or worse than useless, injurious to her in her strange husband’s opinion. I never liked him thoroughly, and now I detest him. He thinks her cold, insensible! She insensible!--Brute! Idiot! Every thing that she says or does displeases him. The merest trifles excite the most cruel suspicions. He totally misunderstands her character, and sees every thing about her in a false light. In short, he is under the dominion of an artful fiend, who works as she pleases upon his passions--upon his pride, which is his ruling passion. This evening Lady Olivia began confessing that she had too much sensibility, that she was of an excessively susceptible temper, and that she should be terribly jealous of the affections of any person she loved. She did not know how love _could_ exist without jealousy. Mr. L---- was present, and listening eagerly. Leonora’s lips were silent; not so her countenance. I was in hopes Mr. L---- would have remarked its beautiful touching expression; but his eyes were fixed upon Olivia. I could have ... but let me go on. Lady Olivia had the malice suddenly to appeal to Leonora, and asked whether she was never jealous of her husband? Leonora, astonished by her assurance, paused for an instant, and then replied, “It would be difficult to convince me that I had any reason to be jealous of Mr. L----, I esteem him so much.”--“I wish to Heaven!” exclaimed Lady Olivia, her eyes turned upwards with a fine St. Cecilia expression, whilst Mr. L----‘s attention was fixed upon her, “Would to Heaven I was blessed with such a _reasonable_ temper!”--“When you are wishing to Heaven, Lady Olivia,” said I, “had not you better ask for _all you want_ at once; not only such a reasonable temper, but such a feeling heart?” Some of the company smiled. Lady Olivia, practised as she is, looked disconcerted; Mr. L---- grave and impenetrable; Leonora, blushing, turned away to the piano-forte. Mr. L---- remained talking with Lady Olivia, and he neither saw nor heard her. If Leonora had sung like an angel, it would have made no impression. She turned over the leaves of her music quickly, to a lively air, and played it immediately, to prevent my perceiving how much she felt. Poor Leonora! you are but a bad dissembler, and it is in vain to try to conceal yourself from me.