her. They were for a few moments alone:—he lent over her; she held a book in her hand; he read a few lines: it is not possible to describe how well he read them. The poetry he read was beautiful as his own: it affected him. He read more; he became animated; Calantha looked up; he fixed his eyes on hers; he forgot the poem; his hand touched hers, as he replaced the book before her; she drew away her hand; he took it and put it to his lips. "Pardon me," he said, 'I am miserable: but I will never injure you. Fly me, Lady Avondole: I deserve not either interest or regard; and to look upon me is in itself pollution to one like you." He then said a few words expressive of his admiration for her husband:—"He is as superior to me," he said, "as Hyperion to a satyr:—and you love him, do you not?" continued he, smilng. "Can you ask?" "He seems most attached, too, to you." "Far, far more than I deserve."
