indignation—and even shame—that he should thus dare to address me, to retain sufficient command of thought and language to enable me adequately to contend against his powerful sophistries. Finding, however, that he could not be silenced by reason, and even covertly exulted in his seeming advantage, and ventured to deride those assertions I had not the coolness to prove, I changed my course and tried another plan.
"Do you really love me?" said I seriously, pausing and looking him calmly in the face.
"Do I love you!'" cried he.
"Truly?" I demanded.
His countenance brightened; he thought his triumph was at hand. He commenced a passionate protestation of the truth and fervour of his attachment which I cut short by another question:—
"But is it not a selfish love?—have you enough disinterested affection to enable you to sacrifice your own pleasure to mine?"
