little blandness and suavity to be loved by inferiors--she was too
learned and too stern to find pleasure in the conversation and society
of young ladies of her own age:--she had no friends. Now, having really
strong affection, she felt all this, but rather with resentment than
grief--she longed to be loved, but did not seek to be so--she felt as if
it was her fate not to be loved--she blamed Fate, not herself.

When, with all the proud, pure, and generous candour of her nature, she
avowed to Ernest her love for him, she naturally expected the most
ardent and passionate return; nothing less could content her. But the
habit and experience of all the past made her eternally suspicious that
she was not loved; it was wormwood and poison to her to fancy that
Maltravers had ever considered her advantages of fortune, except as a
bar to his pretensions and a check on his passion. It was the same
thing to her, whether it was the pettiest avarice or the loftiest
aspirations that actuated her lover, if he had been actuated in his
heart by any sentiment but love; and Ferrers, to whose eye her foibles
were familiar, knew well how to make his praises of Ernest arouse
against Ernest all her exacting jealousies and irritable doubts.

"It is strange," said he, one evening, as he was conversing with
Florence, "how complete and triumphant a conquest you have effected over
Ernest! Will you believe it?--he conceived a prejudice against you when
he first saw you--he even said that you were made to be admired, not to
be loved."

"Ha!--did he so?--true, true--he has almost said the same thing to me."

"But now how he must love you! Surely he has all the signs."