"Show me," he writes, "that, at least, you are not quite
indifferent to me, and I swear that I will never love
anything but your dear self, which has made so sure a
conquest of me that, had I the will, I had not the power
ever to break my chains. Pray let me hear from you and
know if I shall be so happy as to see you to-night."

But to all his protestations and appeals she returns no response. If she
is deaf to the pleadings of love she must, he determined, at least give
him her pity. He writes to tell her that he is "extreme ill with the
headache," and craves a word of sympathy, as a beggar craves a crust. He
vows, in his pain,

"by all that is good I love you so well that I wish from
my soul that if you cannot love me, I may die, for life
could be to me one perpetual torment. If the Duchess,"
he adds, "sees company I hope you will be there; but if
she does not, I beg you will then let me see you in your
chamber, if it be but for one hour. If you are not in the
drawing-room you must then send me word at what hour I
shall come."

At last the iceberg thaws a little--though it is only to charge him with
unkindness! She assumes the _rôle_ of virtue; and, with a woman's
capriciousness, charges her lover with the coldness and neglect which
she herself has visited on him.

"Your not writing to me," she says, "made me very uneasy,
for I was afraid it was want of kindness in you, which I