for the first time, contradicted, crossed in his wishes, when those wishes were to invite to his home the friend of his youth,—just as he was longing, as it were, to throw open his whole heart to him. He felt annoyed, impatient: he took up his pen again and again, and as often threw it down again because he could not make up his mind what to write. He would not go counter to his wife's wishes: still less could he go counter to her expressed desire. Ill at ease as he was, it would have been impossible for him, even if he had wished, to write a quiet, easy letter. The most natural thing to do, was to put it off. In a few words, he begged his friend to forgive him for having left his letter unanswered: that day he was unable to write circumstantially, but shortly he hoped to be able to tell him what he felt at greater length.
The next day, as they were walking to the same spot, Charlotte took the opportunity of bringing back the conversation to the subject; perhaps because she knew that there is no surer way of rooting out any plan or purpose than by often talking it over.
It was what Edward was wishing. He expressed himself in his own way, kindly and sweetly. For although, sensitive as he was, he flamed up readily,—although the vehemence with which he desired anything made him pressing, and his obstinacy made him impatient,—his words were so softened by his wish to spare the feelings of those to whom he was speaking, that it was impossible not to be charmed, even when one most disagreed with him.
On that morning he first contrived to bring Charlotte into the happiest humour, and then so disarmed her with the graceful turn which he gave to the conversation, that she cried out at last: "You are determined that what I refuse to the husband you will make me grant to the lover. At least, my dearest," she continued, "I will acknowledge that
