more of a friend, if I might choose—but I won't complain of that: I am only afraid his affection loses in depth where it gains in ardour. I sometimes liken it to a fire of dry twigs and branches compared with one of solid coal,—very bright and hot, but if it should burn itself out and leave nothing but ashes behind, what shall I do? But it won't—it shan't, I am determined—and surely I have power to keep it alive. So let me dismiss that thought at once. But Arthur is selfish—I am constrained to acknowledge that; and, indeed, the admission gives me less pain than might be expected; for, since I love him so much, I can easily forgive him for loving himself: he likes to be pleased, and it is my delight to please him,—and when I regret this tendency of his, it is for his own sake, not for mine.
The first instance he gave was on the occasion of our bridal tour. He wanted to hurry it over, for all the continental scenes were already familiar to him: many had lost their
