indifference.--Why does she not frown? That would be joy to what her
smiles afford.--I hate such smiles; they are darts dipp'd in poison.--

Lord Allen said he heard I was going to be marry'd:--_What was that to
him?_--Sir James look'd displeased. To quiet _his_ fears I assured
him--God! I know not what I assured _him_--something very foreign from
my heart.

She blushed when Sir James asked, to whom?--With what raptures did I
behold her blushes!--But she shrunk at my answer.--I saw the colour
leave her cheek, like a rose-bud fading beneath the hoary frost.

I _will_ know my fate.--Twill be with you in a few days,--if Sir James
should consent.--_What if he should consent?_--She is steeled against my
vows--my protestations;--my words affect her not;--the most tender
assiduities are disregarded:--she seems to attend to what I say, yet
regards it not.

Where are those looks of preference fled,--those expressive looks?--I
saw them not till now:--it is their loss,--it is their sad reverse that
tells me what they were. She turns not her head to follow my foot-steps
at parting;--or when I return, does not proclaim it by advancing
pleasure tip-toe to the windows of her soul.--No anxiety for my health!
No, she cares not what becomes of me.--I complain'd of my head, said I
was in great pain;--heaven knows how true! My complaints were
disregarded.--I attended her home. She sung all the way; or if she
talked, it was of music:--not a word of _my poor head_;--no charges to
draw the glasses up going back.

There was a time, Molesworth--there was a time, if my finger had but
ached, it was, My Lord, you look ill. Does not Lady Powis persuade you
to have advice? You are really too careless of your health.

Shall she be _another's?_--Yes; when I shrink at sight of what lies
yonder,--my sword, George;--that shall prevent her ever being
_another's_.

Tell me you believe she will be _mine_:--it may help to calm my
disturbed mind.--Be sure you do not hint she will be _another's_.

Have I told you, Mr. Powis is coming home?--I cannot recollect whether I
have or not;--neither can I pain myself to look back.

All the world has something to comfort them, but your poor
friend.--Every thing wears the face of joy, till I turn my eyes
inwards:--_there it is_ I behold the opposite;--_there it is_ where
Grief has fix'd her abode.--Does the fiend ever sleep? Will she be
composed by ushering in the happy prospects of others?--Yes, I will
feel