Philibert gave himself up to the delirium of enchantment which the
presence of Amelie threw over him. He never tired of watching the
fresh developments of her gloriously-endowed nature. Her beauty,
rare as it was, grew day by day upon his wonder and admiration, as
he saw how fully it corresponded to the innate grace and nobility of
her mind.
She was so fresh of thought, so free from all affectation, so gentle
and winning in all her ways, and, sooth to say, so happy in the
admiration of Philibert, which she was very conscious of now. It
darted from his eyes at every look, although no word of it had yet
passed his lips. The radiance of her spirits flashed like sunbeams
through every part of the old Manor House.
Amelie was carried away in a flood of new emotion; she tried once
or twice to be discreetly angry with herself for admitting so
unreservedly the pleasure she felt in Pierre's admiration; she
placed her soul on a rack of self-questioning torture, and every
inquisition she made of her heart returned the self-same answer:
she loved Pierre Philibert!
It was in vain she accused herself of possible impropriety: that it
was bold, unmaidenly, censurable, nay, perhaps sinful, to give her
heart before it had been asked for; but if she had to die for it,
she could not conceal the truth, that she loved Pierre Philibert!
"I ought to be angry with myself," said she.
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