fortified his belief that the girl for whom he felt a growing passion—a passion against which he struggled vainly day by day, and which he sought to conceal from all the world, including the devoted Hatty—that this girl was vain and heartless. How otherwise could her conduct be accounted for? He had judged her to be proud, reticent, even contemptuous, when she arrived here, nearly three months ago. The barriers she had erected round herself had gradually broken down. He had seen with righteous indignation that they had yielded, after a while, to Monsieur Anatole Doucet's flattery, and he had feared greatly that this poetical cheap-jack would, with his good looks and his verses, make a real impression on the heart of the English girl. That dread was dispelled; but it was not to be denied that she had, up to a certain point, encouraged him—had played with him, as a cat does with a mouse, and had only dropped him when she had discovered that it was not always safe to play even with a mouse.
Yes, she was a coquette; there could be no doubt of it. He must be on his guard. Even towards himself, how wayward she was!—for it was thus he interpreted the fitful expansion and indifference of her manner. Had he been told that it was this very guardedness of his which often chilled the flow of the girl's utterance, and clouded her bright face in conversation, he would have been amazed. We often remain ignorant, to the end of the chapter, of the influence our manner—our outer being—has on the surface of others.
And now a new subject for disquietude had arisen. After the third or fourth day of Mr. George's presence
