ly
to be won; therefore she affected to be insensible of his passion, and
gave him much uneasiness in the prosecution of his suit.

And when Lucetta offered the letter to Julia, she would not receive it,
and chid her maid for taking letters from Proteus, and ordered her to
leave the room. But she so much wished to see what was written in the
letter, that she soon called in her maid again; and when Lucetta
returned, she said, "What o'clock is it?" Lucetta, who knew her mistress
more desired to see the letter than to know the time of day, without
answering her question, again offered the rejected letter. Julia, angry
that her maid should thus take the liberty of seeming to know what she
really wanted, tore the letter in pieces, and threw it on the floor,
ordering her maid once more out of the room. As Lucetta was retiring,
she stopped to pick up the fragments of the torn letter; but Julia, who
meant not so to part with them, said, in pretended anger, "Go, get you
gone, and let the papers lie; you would be fingering them to anger me."

Julia then began to piece together as well as she could the torn
fragments. She first made out these words, "Love-wounded Proteus;" and
lamenting over these and such like loving words, which she made out
though they were all torn asunder, or, she said _wounded_ (the
expression "Love-wounded Proteus" giving her that idea), she talked to
these kind words, telling them she would lodge them in her bosom as in a
bed, till their wounds were healed, and that she would kiss each several
piece, to make amends.

In this manner she went on talking with a pretty ladylike childishness,
till finding herself unable to make out the whole, and vexed at her own
ingratitude in destroying such sweet and loving words, as she called
them, she wrote a much kinder letter to Proteus than she had ever done
before.

Proteus was greatly delighted at receiving this favourable answer to his
letter; and while he was reading it, he exclaimed, "Sweet love, sweet
lines, sweet life!" In the midst of his raptures he was interrupted by
his father. "How now!" said the old gentleman; "what letter are you
reading there?"

"My lord," replied Proteus, "it is a letter from my friend Valentine, at
Milan."

"Lend me the letter," said his father: "let me see what news."

"There are no news, my lord," said Proteus, greatly alarmed, "but that
he writes how well beloved he is of the Duke of Milan, who daily graces
him with favours