To Miss Fermor.
Sunday morning.
Could you have believed he would have expected such a proof of my
desire to oblige him? but what can he ask that his Emily will refuse? I
will see this _friend_ of his, this Madame Des Roches; I will even
love her, if it is in woman to be so disinterested. She loves him; he
sees her; they say she is amiable; I could have wished her visit to
Quebec had been delayed.
But he comes; he looks up; his eyes seem to thank me for this excess
of complaisance: what is there I would not do to give him pleasure?
Six o'clock.
Do you think her so very pleasing, my dear Bell? she has fine eyes,
but have they not more fire than softness? There was a vivacity in her
manner which hurt me extremely: could she have behaved with such
unconcern, had she loved as I do?
Do you think it possible, Bell, for a Frenchwoman to love? is not
vanity the ruling passion of their hearts?
May not Rivers be deceived in supposing her so much attached to him?
was there not some degree of affectation in her particular attention to
me? I cannot help thinking her artful.
Perhaps I am prejudiced: she may be amiable, but I will own she does
not please me.
Rivers begged me to have a friendship for her; I am afraid this is
more than is in my power: friendship, like love, is the child of
sympathy, not of constraint.
Adieu! Yours,
Emily Montague.