win as the handsomest of women. The fear of some day displeasing the
eye roused her pride, destroyed her trustfulness, and gave her the
courage to hide in the depths of her heart that dawning happiness
which other women delight in making known by their manners,--wearing
it proudly, like a coronet. The more love urged her towards Balthazar,
the less she dared to express her feelings. The glance, the gesture,
the question and answer as it were of a pretty woman, so flattering to
the man she loves, would they not be in her case mere humiliating
speculation? A beautiful woman can be her natural self,--the world
overlooks her little follies or her clumsiness; whereas a single
criticising glance checks the noblest expression on the lips of an
ugly woman, adds to the ill-grace of her gesture, gives timidity to
her eyes and awkwardness to her whole bearing. She knows too well that
to her alone the world condones no faults; she is denied the right to
repair them; indeed, the chance to do so is never given. This
necessity of being perfect and on her guard at every moment, must
surely chill her faculties and numb their exercise? Such a woman can
exist only in an atmosphere of angelic forbearance. Where are the
hearts from which forbearance comes with no alloy of bitter and
stinging pity.

These thoughts, to which the codes of social life had accustomed her,
and the sort of consideration more wounding than insult shown to her
by the world,--a consideration which increases a misfortune by making
it apparent,--oppressed Mademoiselle de Temninck with a constant sense
of embarrassment, which drove back into her soul its happiest
expression, and chilled and stiffened her attitudes, her speech, her
looks. Loving and beloved, she dared to be eloquent or beautiful only
when alone. Unhappy and oppressed in the broad daylight of life, she
might have been enchanting could she have expanded in the shadow.