In a word, before night fell Clara had won my heart in its every fibre, and I went to my room the very happiest of mortals.
I need not chronicle my next three days--to me the most glorious "trois jours" of my life.

Clara had evidently singled me out and preferred me to all the rest.

It was beside me she rode--upon my arm she leaned in walking--and, to comble me with delight unutterable, I overheard her say to my uncle, "Oh, I doat upon poor Harry! And it is so pleasant, for I'm sure Mortimer will be so jealous." "And who is Mortimer," thought I; "he is a new character in the piece, of whom we have seen nothing." I was not long in doubt upon this head, for that very day, at dinner, the identical Mortimer presented himself.

He was a fine, dashing-looking, soldier-like fellow, of about thirty-five, and with a heavy moustache, and a bronzed cheek--rather grave in his manner, but still perfectly good-natured, and when he smiled showing a most handsome set of regular teeth.

Clara seemed less pleased (I thought) at his coming than the others, and took pleasure in tormenting him by a thousand pettish and frivolous ways, which I was sorry for, as I thought he did not like it; and used to look half chidingly at her from time to time, but without any effect, for she just went on as before, and generally ended by taking my arm and saying, "Come away, Harry; you always are kind, and never look sulky.