Twelve o’clock.

The dear man is gone, and has made all up:  he insisted on my explaining the reasons of the cold reception he had met with; which you know was impossible, without betraying the secret of poor Emily’s little foolish heart.

I however contrived to let him know we were a little piqued at his going without seeing us, and that we were something inclined to be jealous of his friendship for Madame Des Roches.

He made a pretty decent defence; and, though I don’t absolutely acquit him of coquetry, yet upon the whole I think I forgive him.

He loves Emily, which is great merit with me:  I am only sorry they are two such poor devils, it is next to impossible they should ever come together.

I think I am not angry now; as to Emily, her eyes dance with pleasure; she has not the same countenance as in the morning; this love is the finest cosmetick in the world.

After all, he is a charming fellow, and has eyes, Lucy—­Heaven be praised, he never pointed their fire at me!

Adieu!  I will try to sleep.

      Yours,
          A. Fermor.

LETTER 94.

To Miss Rivers, Clarges Street.

Quebec, March 20.

The coldness of which I complained, my dear Lucy, in regard to Emily, was the most flattering circumstance which could have happened:  I will not say it was the effect of jealousy, but it certainly was of a delicacy of affection which extremely resembles it.

Never did she appear so lovely as yesterday; never did she display such variety of loveliness:  there was a something in her look, when I first addressed her on entering the room, touching beyond all words, a certain inexpressible melting languor, a dying softness, which it was not in man to see unmoved:  what then must a lover have felt?

I had the pleasure, after having been in the room a few moments, to see this charming languor change to a joy which animated her whole form, and of which I was so happy as to believe myself the cause:  my eyes had told her all that passed in my heart; hers had shewed me plainly they understood their language.  We were standing at a window at some little distance from the rest of the company, when I took an opportunity of hinting my concern at having, though without knowing it, offended her:  she blushed, she looked down, she again raised her lovely eyes, they met mine, she sighed; I took her hand, she withdrew it, but not in anger; a smile, like that of the poet’s Hebe, told me I was forgiven.

There is no describing what then passed in my soul:  with what difficulty did I restrain my transports! never before did I really know love:  what I had hitherto felt even for her, was cold to that enchanting, that impassioned moment.

She is a thousand times dearer to me than life:  my Lucy, I cannot live without her.

I contrived, before I left Silleri, to speak to Bell Fermor on the subject of Emily’s reception of me; she did not fully explain herself, but she convinced me hatred had no part in her resentment.