—There wants nothing, said I, to make it so, but the comick use which the gallantry of a Frenchman would put it to—to make love the first moment, and an offer of his person the second.

’Tis their fort: replied the lady.

It is supposed so at least—and how it has come to pass, continued I, I know not; but they have certainly got the credit of understanding more of love, and making it better than any other nation upon earth: but for my own part, I think them errant bunglers, and in truth the worst set of marksmen that ever tried Cupid’s patience.

—To think of making love by sentiments!

I should as soon think of making a genteel suit of cloaths out of remnants;—and to do it—pop—at first sight by declaration—is submitting the offer and themselves with it, to be sifted, with all their pours and contres, by an unheated mind.

The lady attended as if she expected I should go on.

Consider then, Madam, continued I, laying my hand upon her’s—

That grave people hate Love for the name’s sake—

That selfish people hate it for their own—

Hypocrites for heaven’s—

And that all of us, both old and young, being ten times worse frighten’d than hurt by the very report—What a want of knowledge in this branch of commerce a man betrays, whoever lets the word come out of his lips, till an hour or two at least after the time, that his silence upon it becomes tormenting. A course of small, quiet attentions, not so pointed as to alarm—nor so vague as to be misunderstood,—with now and then a look of kindness, and little or nothing said upon it—leaves Nature for your mistress, and she fashions it to her mind.—

Then I solemnly declare, said the lady, blushing—you have been making love to me all this while.

The Remise

Calais

Monsieur Dessein came back to let us out of the chaise, and acquaint the lady, the Count de L—² her brother, was just arrived at the hôtel. Though I had infinite good-will for the lady, I cannot say, that I rejoiced in my heart at the event—and could not help telling her so—for it is fatal to a proposal, Madam, said I, that I was going to make to you—

—You need not tell me what the proposal was, said she, laying her hand upon both mine, as she interrupted me—A man, my good Sir,³ has seldom an offer of kindness to make to a woman, but she has a presentiment of it some moments before—

Nature arms her with it, said I, for immediate preservation—But I think, said she, looking in my face, I had no evil to apprehend—and to deal frankly with you, had determined to accept it.—If I had—(she stopp’d a moment)—I believe your good-will would have drawn a story from me, which would have made pity the only dangerous thing in the journey.

In saying this, she suffered me to kiss her hand twice, and with a look of sensibility mixed with a concern, she got out of the Chaise—and bid adieu.