Eleven o'clock.

"For my shepherd is kind, and my heart is at ease."

What fools women are, Lucy! He took her hand, expressed concern for
her health, softened the tone of his voice, looked a few civil things
with those expressive lying eyes of his, and without one word of
explanation all was forgot in a moment.

Good night! Yours,
A. Fermor.

Heavens! the fellow is here, has followed me to my dressing-room;
was ever any thing so confident? These modest men have ten times the
assurance of your impudent fellows. I believe absolutely he is going to
make love to me: 'tis a critical hour, Lucy; and to rob one's friend of
a lover is really a temptation.

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