woman for ten years, and one day will wake up to the fact that he loves
her, and has loved her probably for some time past. And then his whole
manner changes immediately, and he is apt to make himself very
disagreeable unless indeed the lady loves him--and women are rarely in
doubt in their inmost hearts as to whether they love or not.

The heart of the cold northern-born man is a strange puzzle. It can only
be compared in its first awakening to a very backward spring. In the
first place, the previous absence of anything like love has bred a rough
and somewhat coarse scepticism about the existence of passion at all.
Young Boreas scoffs at the mere mention of a serious affection, and
turns up his nose at a love-match. He thinks young women no end of fun;
his vanity makes him fancy himself the heartless hero of many an
adventure, and if, as frequently happens, he is but an imperfect
gentleman, he will not scruple to devise, imagine, and recount (to his
bosom friend, of course, in strictest secrecy) some hairbreadth escape
from an irate husband or an avenging father, where he has nearly lost
his life, he says, in the pursuit of some woman, generally a lady of
spotless reputation whom he barely knows. But put him in her society for
an hour, with every opportunity of pressing his suit, and the veriest
lambkin could not be more harmless. He has not yet tasted blood, though
he will often smack his lips and talk as if he had.

It is generally chance that makes him fall in love the first time. He is
thrown together with his fate--tall or short, dark or fair, it makes no
difference--in some country house or on some journey. For a long time
her society only amuses him and helps to pass the hours, for Boreas is
easily bored and finds time a terrible adversary. Gradually he
understands that she is a necessity to his comfort, and there is nothing
he will not do to secure her on every possible opportunity for himself.