need not be confined like a prisoner and be always in fear; so
that all the rest was grimace.

We lived here very easy and quiet, and yet I cannot say I was so in my
mind; I was like a fish out of water. I was as gay and as young in my
disposition as I was at five-and-twenty; and as I had always been
courted, flattered, and used to love it, so I missed it in my
conversation; and this put me many times upon looking back upon things
past.

I had very few moments in my life which, in their reflection, afforded
me anything but regret: but of all the foolish actions I had to look
back upon in my life, none looked so preposterous and so like
distraction, nor left so much melancholy on my mind, as my parting with
my friend, the merchant of Paris, and the refusing him upon such
honourable and just conditions as he had offered; and though on his just
(which I called unkind) rejecting my invitation to come to him again, I
had looked on him with some disgust, yet now my mind run upon him
continually, and the ridiculous conduct of my refusing him, and I could
never be satisfied about him. I flattered myself that if I could but see
him I could yet master him, and that he would presently forget all that
had passed that might be thought unkind; but as there was no room to
imagine anything like that to be possible, I threw those thoughts off
again as much as I could.

However, they continually returned, and I had no rest night or day for
thinking of him, who I had forgot above eleven years. I told Amy of it,
and we talked it over sometimes in bed, almost whole nights together. At
last Amy started a thing of her own head, which put it in a way of
management, though a wild one too. "You are so uneasy, madam," says she,
"about this Mr. ----, the merchant at Paris; come," says she, "if you'll
give me leave, I'll go over and see what's become of him."

"Not for ten thousand pounds," said I; "no, nor if you met him in the
street, not to offer to speak to him on my account." "No," says Amy, "I
would not speak to him at all; or if I did, I warrant you it shall not
look to be upon your account. I'll only inquire after him, and if he is
in being, you shall hear of him; if not, you shall hear of him still,
and that may be enough."

"Why," says I, "if you will promise me not to enter into anything
relating to me with him, nor to begin any discourse at all unless he
begins it with you, I could almost be persuaded to let you go and try."

Am