earnestness.

"I remember," he cried, "it was upon the Terrace you first shewed
me this disdain; and there, too, you have shown it me repeatedly
since, with public superciliousness. . . . You well know you
have treated me ill,--you know and have acknowledged it!"

"And when?" cried I, amazed and provoked; "when did I do what
could never be done?"

"At Kew, ma'am, you were full of concern--full of remorse for the
treatment you had given me!--and you owned it!"

"Good heaven, Mr. Turbulent, what can induce you to say this?"

"Is it not true?"

"Not a word of it! You know it is not!"

"Indeed," cried he, "I really and truly thought so--hoped so;--I
believed you looked as if you felt your own ill-usage,- and it
gave to me a delight inexpressible!"

This was almost enough to bring back the very same supercilious
Distance of which he complained; but, in dread of fresh
explanations, I forbore to notice this flight, and only told him
he might be perfectly satisfied, since I no longer Persevered in
the taciturnity to which he objected.

"But how," cried he, "do you give up, without deigning to assign