Not love, only the bathing in Henrietta's incomparable beauty and the desire to be, desire to have been, the casket of it, broke the world to tempest and lightnings at a view of Henrietta the married woman--married to the brother of the woman calling him husband:--'It is my husband.' The young tyrant of wealth could have avowed that he did not love Henrietta; but not the less was he in the swing of a whirlwind at the hint of her loving the man she had married.

Did she?
It might be tried.
She?
That Henrietta is one of the creatures who love pleasure, love flattery, love their beauty: they cannot love a man.

Or the love is a ship that will not sail a sea.
Now, if the fact were declared and attested, if her shallowness were seen proved, one might get free of the devil she plants in the breast.
Absolutely to despise her would be release, and it would allow of his tasting Carinthia's charm, reluctantly acknowledged; not 'money of the country' beside that golden Henrietta's.
Yet who can say ?--women are such deceptions.

Often their fairest, apparently sweetest, when brought to the keenest of the tests, are graceless; or worse, artificially consonant; in either instance barren of the poetic.

Thousands of the confidently expectant among men have been unbewitched; a lamentable process; and the grimly reticent and the loudly discursive are equally eloquent of the pretty general disillusion.