observation。　I　could　not　unlove　him；　because　I　felt　sure　he　would　soon　marry　this　very　lady—because　I　read　daily　in　her　a　proud　security　in　his　intentions　respecting　her—because　I　witnessed　hourly　in　him　a　style　of　courtship　which；　if　careless　and　choosing　rather　to　be　sought　than　to　seek；　was　yet；　in　its　very　carelessness；　captivating；　and　in　its　very　pride；　irresistible。

There　was　nothing　to　cool　or　banish　love　in　these　circumstances；　though　much　to　create　despair。　Much　too；　you　will　think；　reader；　to　engender　jealousy：　if　a　woman；　in　my　position；　could　presume　to　be　jealous　of　a　woman　in　Miss　Ingram’s。　But　I　was　not　jealous：　or　very　rarely；—the　nature　of　the　pain　I　suffered　could　not　be　explained　by　that　word。　Miss　Ingram　was　a　mark　beneath　jealousy：　she　was　too　inferior　to　excite　the　feeling。　Pardon　the　seeming　paradox；　I　mean　what　I　say。　She　was　very　showy；　but　she　was　not　genuine：　she　had　a　fine　person；　many　brilliant　attainments；　but　her　mind　was　poor；　her　heart　barren　by　nature：　nothing　bloomed　spontaneously　on　that　soil；　no　unforced　natural　fruit　delighted　by　its　freshness。　She　was　not　good；　she　was　not　original：　she　used　to　repeat　sounding　phrases　from　books：　she　never　offered；　nor　had；　an　opinion　of　her　own。　She　advocated　a　high　tone　of　sentiment；　but　she　did　not　know　the　sensations　of　sympathy　and　pity；　tenderness　and　truth　were　not　in　her。　Too　often　she　betrayed　this；　by　the　undue　vent　she　gave　to　a　spiteful　antipathy　she　had　conceived　against　little　Adèle