Perhaps a man of Mr. Pollingray's
age, or perhaps M. le Marquis--and here I lose myself. French habits are
so different from ours. One thing I am certain of: no charge can be
brought against my Englishman. I read perfect rectitude in his face. I
would cast anchor by him. He must have had a dreadful unhappiness.
Mama kept her promise by sending my riding habit and hat punctually, but
I had run far ahead of all the wishes I had formed when I left home, and
I half feared my ride out with Mr. Pollingray. That was before I had
received Charles's letter, letting me know the object of my invitation
here. I require at times a morbid pride to keep me up to the work. I
suppose I rode befittingly, for Mr. Pollingray praised my seat on
horseback. I know I can ride, or feel the 'blast of a horse like my
own'--as he calls it. Yet he never could have had a duller companion. My
conversation was all yes and no, as if it went on a pair of crutches like
a miserable cripple. I was humiliated and vexed. All the while I was
trying to lead up to the French lady, and I could not commence with a
single question.
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