n, as if she were on the point of
laughing, took possession of her whole frame like a shivering fit, when
she remembered that this was the man to whom that same evening she was
to plight her troth. As the young officer and the counsellor were
revolting to her, just so familiar, open and benign, was the expression
which beamed upon her in the looks of the Count, whom but the day
before she had heard described as a bad and dangerous man.

He seemed the only person at table who was unconcerned. He spoke with
satisfaction of the affairs he was transacting on behalf of his
American friend; he mentioned the estates he had already purchased, or
for which he was in treaty; and much surprize was excited by the wealth
of the stranger, who was able to consolidate the finest estates in the
country in one large domain. By the Count's address the conversation
soon became more free, and the Baron, who seemed to be resisting with
violence the feeling which pressed upon him, endeavoured to engross and
command it, principally no doubt that the young people and the lady of
the house might not slacken in their wonted homage.

But as it often happens, that conversation, if it is not conducted with
easy unconcern and delicate tact, is led, by arrogance and vehemence,
to assume a polemical character, such was the case here; for the
speeches and expressions of the Baron were all disguised attacks on the
Count and his opinions, such as he conceived them from the description
he had heard of him. The Count took little notice at first of these
intimations; he conversed principally with Dorothea, who sat by his
side, spoke of his affairs, and at last said as if in jest, that he had
at the same time received a commission from his American friend to look
out for a wife for him.

"That you cannot surely either of you mean in earnest," said the
Baroness.

"And why not?" answered the Count in a sprightly humour; "My friend in
this only imitates the custom of sovereign princes, to treat by
ambassadors, and according to political considerations. He is now no
longer young, and cannot expect to excite passion; he has had in his
youth a great deal of melancholy experience, and his own misfortune, as
well as the fate of many of his friends, has convinced him, that what
men call love, is but an unmanly craving, often vanity, sometimes even
infatuation, and that most marriages which are contracted in seeming
passion, bring on but a joyless, most fretful lif