calmer and cooler than he: I had then temporarily the advantage of him; and I conceived an inclination to do him some good, if I could.
"With all his firmness and self-control," thought I, "he tasks himself too far: locks every feeling and pang within—expresses, confesses, imparts nothing. I am sure it would benefit him to talk a little about this sweet Rosamond, whom he thinks he ought not to marry: I will make him talk."
I said first: "Take a chair, Mr. Rivers."
But he answered, as he always did, that he could not stay. "Very well," I responded, mentally, "stand, if you like; but you shall not go just yet, I am determined: solitude is at least as bad for you as it is for me. I'll try if I cannot discover the secret spring of your confidence, and find an aperture in that marble breast through which I can shed one drop of the balm of sympathy."
"Is this portrait like?" I asked, bluntly.
"Like! Like whom? I did not observe it closely."
"You did, Mr. Rivers."
He almost started at my sudden and strange abruptness: he looked at me astonished.
"Oh, that is nothing yet," I muttered within. I don't mean to be baffled by a little stiffness
