O Emily! How inconsistent is a heart in love! I entreated Mr. Mandeville not to write to me, and am chagrined at his too exact obedience: I think, if he loved as I do, he could not so easily obey me. He writes to Lady Anne; and, though by my desire,/ I am ashamed of my weakness; – but I wish he wrote less often: there is an air of gaiety in his letters which offends me – He talks of balls, of parties with ladies – Perhaps I am unjust, but the delicacy of my love is wounded by his knowing a moment's pleasure in my absence; to me all places are equal where he is not; all amusements without him are dull, and tasteless. Have not I an equal right to expect, Emily! He knows not how I love him.

Convinced that this mutual passion is the designation of heaven to restore him to that affluence he lost by the partiality of an ancestor, and the generous loyalty of his family, I give way to it without reserve; I regard my love as a virtue; I am proud of having distinguished his merit without those trappings of wealth, which alone can attract common eyes. His idea is for ever before me; I think with transport of those enchanting moments/ – Emily, that week of tender confidence is all my life, the rest is not worth numbering in my existence.

My father to-night gives a ball to Lord Melvin, with whom I am again, unwillingly, obliged to dance. I wish not to dance at all; to make this sacrifice to the most beloved of men: Why have I not courage to avow my sentiments, to declare he alone – This Lord Melvin too, I know not why, but I never see him without horror.