_Paris, Hotel de l'Universite_

Aid me if thou canst, Oliver, to think, or rather to unravel my own
entangled thoughts. Do not suffer me to continue in a state of
delusion, if thou perceivest it to be such. Be explicit; tell me if
thou dost but so much as forebode: for at moments I myself despond;
though at others I am wasted to the heaven of heavens, to certainty,
and bliss unutterable. If I deceive myself?--Well!--And if I do, what
is to follow?--Rashness?--Cowardice?--What! Basely abandon duty,
virtue, and energy?--No!

Looks, words, appearances, daily events are all so contradictory, that
the warfare of hope and fear increases, and becomes violent, almost to
distraction! Clifton is openly countenanced by Sir Arthur, treated
kindly by her, and is incessant in every kind of assiduity. His
qualities are neither mean, insignificant, nor common. No: they are
brilliant, and rare. With a person as near perfection as his mind will
permit it to be, a knowledge of languages, a taste for the fine arts,
much bravery, high notions of honour, a more than common share of wit,
keen and ungovernable feelings, an impatience of contradiction, and an
obstinacy in error, he is a compound of jarring elements, that augur
tempests and peril. Vain, haughty, and self-willed, his family, his
fortune, his accomplishments and himself are the pictures that
fascinate his eye. It is attracted, for a moment, by the superior
powers of another; but all his passions and propensities forebode that
he is not to be held, even by that link of adamant.

And is she to be dazzled then by this glare? Can her attention be
caught by person, attracted by wit? And does she not shrink from that