action; and call to mind the thousand slight acts of kindness, almost unmarked, because of such daily occurrence."
"I felicitate you on your experience," said the Chevalier, rising, "and will now depart, and at least try to preserve so agreeable an impression."
True enough was the Chevalier's assertion, that we know but little of even our most intimate friends—and yet this does not originate from want of sympathy; it is rather owing to the extreme sensitiveness of all our more imaginative feelings. How many emotions rise in every heart which we never dream of communicating! They are too fine, too fragile, for expression, like those delicate hues of the atmosphere, which never yet could painter embody. Moreover, there is an odd sort of satisfaction which we all take in making ourselves other than we are. This is a species of deception which defies analysis, and is yet universally practised. Some make themselves out better, some worse, than they really are; but none give themselves their exact likeness. Perhaps it is that the ideal faculty is so strongly developed in us, that we cannot help exercising it even upon the reality of ourselves.
