The triumphs of a true feminine heart are short upon these
discomfitures. In a very few seconds she laid her hand upon the
cuff of my coat, in order to finish her reply; so, some way or
other, God knows how, I regained my situation.

- She had nothing to add.

I forthwith began to model a different conversation for the lady,
thinking from the spirit as well as moral of this, that I had been
mistaken in her character; but upon turning her face towards me,
the spirit which had animated the reply was fled,--the muscles
relaxed, and I beheld the same unprotected look of distress which
first won me to her interest: --melancholy! to see such
sprightliness the prey of sorrow,--I pitied her from my soul; and
though it may seem ridiculous enough to a torpid heart,--I could
have taken her into my arms, and cherished her, though it was in
the open street, without brushing.

The pulsations of the arteries along my fingers pressing across
hers, told her what was passing within me: she looked down--a
silence of some moments followed.

I fear in this interval, I must have made some slight efforts
towards a closer compression of her hand, from a subtle sensation I
felt in the palm of my own,--not as if she was going to withdraw
hers--but as if she thought about it;--and I had infallibly lost it
a second time, had not instinct more than reason directed me to the
last resource in these dangers,--to hold it loosely, and in a
manner as if I was every moment going to release it, of myself; so
she let it continue, till Monsieur Dessein returned with the key;