e　equipages　that　rolled　along　the　fashionable　streets　towards　the　neighbouring　opera…house；　when　in　an　elegant　close　carriage　drawn　by　a　beautiful　pair　of　English　horses；　and　distinctly　seen　in　the　brilliant　city…night；　I　recognised　the　‘voiture’　I　had　given　Céline。　She　was　returning：　of　course　my　heart　thumped　with　impatience　against　the　iron　rails　I　leant　upon。　The　carriage　stopped；　as　I　had　expected；　at　the　hotel　door；　my　flame　（that　is　the　very　word　for　an　opera　inamorata）　alighted：　though　muffed　in　a　cloak—an　unnecessary　encumbrance；　by…the…bye；　on　so　warm　a　June　evening—I　knew　her　instantly　by　her　little　foot；　seen　peeping　from　the　skirt　of　her　dress；　as　she　skipped　from　the　carriage…step。　Bending　over　the　balcony；　I　was　about　to　murmur　‘Mon　ange’—in　a　tone；　of　course；　which　should　be　audible　to　the　ear　of　love　alone—when　a　figure　jumped　from　the　carriage　after　her；　cloaked　also；　but　that　was　a　spurred　heel　which　had　rung　on　the　pavement；　and　that　was　a　hatted　head　which　now　passed　under　the　arched　porte　cochère　of　the　hotel。

“You　never　felt　jealousy；　did　you；　Miss　Eyre？　Of　course　not：　I　need　not　ask　you；　because　you　never　felt　love。　You　have　both　sentiments　yet　to　experience：　your　soul　sleeps；　the　shock　is　yet　to　be　given　which　shall　waken　it。　You　think　all　existence　lapses　in　as　quiet　a　flow　as　that　in　which　your　youth　has　hitherto　slid　away。　Floating　on　with　closed　eyes　and　muffled　ears；　you　neither　see　the　rocks　bristling　not　far　off　in　the　bed　of　the　flood；