gratify it, was the same thing. His kindness was almost womanly in its anxiety and delicacy: he gave up amusements and engagements to sit, evening after evening, by her languid couch: but one thing was wanting—love alone can answer love; and, kind as he was, attentive as he was, the seeking heart of Constance pined with a perpetual want.
Her meeting with Lady Marchmont gave a sudden clue to an unhappiness, I should rather say a want of happiness, unacknowledged even to herself. A terrible fear which, the more she thought it over, grew more like truth, took possession of her mind. Courtenaye had loved the brilliant stranger whom he now met with such obvious reluctance. What could have separated them? To Constance it appeared impossible that Courtenaye could ever have been rejected; but, whatever the cause had been, to her it mattered not: she looked only to the hopelessness of ever inspiring love in one who had loved Lady Marchmont. She tortured herself by recalling every word and look of her too gifted rival; she remembered her as
