These remarks were uttered with a
propriety and sweetness that won upon me yet more than her beauty. I
then, in return, assured her that I had not supposed any of the family
had remained at home, when I strolled to this part of the mansion. I
begged she would not regard me with the formality of a stranger; and
insisted that, as she was the cousin of my relation, she was also mine.
To this ingenious argument she answered with so much good sense, and at
the same time, so much gentleness and artlessness, that I thought I
could have listened to her for ever. While I spoke, she continued to
move on. I entreated to know if she was satisfied with my apology;
repeated that I had not meant to intrude on her privacy. She mildly
replied that she was. I then asked permission to call her cousin. She
said she should not object, if it would gave me pleasure. It was, my
dear Atterley, her ineffable sweetness of disposition, and of manners so
entirely free from pride, coquetry, or affectation, in which this lovely
creature excelled all other women, yet more than in beauty and grace. I
then inquired when I should again see my lovely cousin. She replied, "I
walk in the great garden sometimes with my companions, when their
brothers are away; but the girls will not think it proper to walk when
you are there." Perceiving that I looked chagrined, she added: "It is
said, you know, that the light from mens' eyes is yet worse for womens'
faces than the light of the sun;" and she blushed as if she had said
something wrong.
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