Accordingly--wresting herself from his embrace, and retreating to the farther end of the sofa, she hastily arranged her cap and dishevelled hair--drew the wrapper over her breast--and, turning upon him eyes that still seemed to swim in liquid languor, said in a half-reproachful manner, “Oh! Charles--is this friendship? would you ruin me?” “Sweetest--dearest creature,” exclaimed the young man, “did I not tell you yester-night that _friendship_ was a sentiment dangerous for us to feel, and a word perilous for our tongues to utter? O Perdita--it is not friendship that I feel for you: ’tis love--ardent, sincere, and devoted love! And ’twas not friendship at first sight that I experienced for you the moment I last evening set foot in this room: but ’twas love--love, my Perdita--such love as never before did man entertain for woman!” “And it was because I love you, Charles,” murmured Perdita, in her softest, tenderest tones, “that I loathe and abhor the idea of that union which my mother has so inconsiderately--so rashly--so cruelly planned for me!” “You love me, Perdita!” ejaculated the young man, wild with joy: “oh! thanks--ten thousand thanks for that assurance, my own sweet Perdita! I was happy in the possession of your friendship: but I am now mad--demented in the confidence of owning your love! For the love of such a being as yourself is something that would make a paradise of the blackest and most barren desert on the face of the earth! Is it possible, then, that I possess your love, Perdita--dearest Perdita? Oh! tell me so once more: it is so delicious to hear such an avowal from your lips!” “Yes, Charles--I love you--I do indeed love you,” replied the young woman, throwing as much softness into her melting tones, as much witchery into her manner, and as much voluptuous languor into her glances as she possibly could. It was like a scene of enchantment for that young man of wild and fervid impulses; and he was completely--wholly absorbed in its magic interest,--an interest so enthralling, so captivating that he felt as if he had been suddenly wafted into a new world of delights unknown in this sublunary sphere. Lady Frances was forgotten--his parents, his ambitious aims, and even his admiration of the Prince of Montoni,--all, all were forgotten in the delirium of passion which had seized upon him. “You love me--you do indeed love me!” he exclaimed; and, approaching the object of his worship, he again wound his arms around her--again drank in the sweetness of her moist red lips. “Charles--Charles,” she murmured; “you are gloriously handsome--and I adore you!” But as she thus spoke, she once more disengaged herself from his maddened embrace--for she felt that her own passions, ever violent, were raging to a degree that became almost uncontroullable.