"How culpably careless in her to leave her desk open, where I know she has money! In the lock hang the keys of all her repositories, of her very jewel-casket. There is a purse in that little satin bag; I see the tassel of silver beads hanging out. That spectacle would provoke my brother Robert. All her little failings would, I know, be a source of irritation to him. If they vex me it is a most pleasurable vexation. I delight to find her at fault; and were I always resident with her, I am aware she would be no niggard in thus ministering to my enjoyment. She would just give me something to do, to rectify--a theme for my tutor lectures. I never lecture Henry, never feel disposed to do so. If he does wrong--and that is very seldom, dear, excellent lad!--a word suffices. Often I do no more than shake my head. But the moment her _minois mutin_ meets my eye, expostulatory words crowd to my lips. From a taciturn man I believe she would transform me into a talker. Whence comes the delight I take in that talk? It puzzles myself sometimes. The more _crne, malin, taquin_ is her mood, consequently the clearer occasion she gives me for disapprobation, the more I seek her, the better I like her. She is never wilder than when equipped in her habit and hat, never less manageable than when she and Zo come in fiery from a race with the wind on the hills; and I confess it--to this mute page I may confess it--I have waited an hour in the court for the chance of witnessing her return, and for the dearer chance of receiving her in my arms from the saddle. I have noticed (again it is to this page only I would make the remark) that she will never permit any man but myself to render her that assistance. I have seen her politely decline Sir Philip Nunnely's aid. She is always mighty gentle with her young baronet, mighty tender for his feelings, forsooth, and of his very thin-skinned _amour propre_. I have marked her haughtily reject Sam Wynne's. Now I know--my heart knows it, for it has felt it--that she resigns herself to me unreluctantly. Is she conscious how my strength rejoices to serve her? I myself am not her slave--I declare it--but my faculties gather to her beauty, like the genii to the glisten of the lamp. All my knowledge, all my prudence, all my calm, and all my power stand in her presence humbly waiting a task. How glad they are when a mandate comes! What joy they take in the toils she assigns! Does she know it?

"How careless in her to leave her desk open, where I know she has money! In the lock hang all her keys. There is a purse in that little satin bag; I see the beaded tassel hanging out. All her little failings would, I know, irritate my brother Robert. If they vex me it is a most pleasurable vexation. I delight to find her at fault. I never lecture Henry, never feel disposed to do so. If he does wrong - and that is very seldom, dear, excellent lad! - a word suffices. But the moment her mischievous face meets my eye, expostulatory words crowd to my lips, transforming me into a talker. It puzzles me sometimes. The more teasing her mood, the more I seek her, the better I like her.
"She is never wilder, never less manageable than when she comes in fiery from a ride on the hills; and I confess I have waited an hour in the courtyard for the chance of seeing her return, and for the dearer chance of lifting her from the saddle. I have noticed that she will never permit any man but myself to do that; not even Sir Philip Nunnely. She is always mighty gentle with her young baronet. But I know that she resigns herself to me willingly. Is she conscious how my strength rejoices to serve her? I myself am not her slave; but all my knowledge, all my prudence, all my calm, and all my power stand in her presence humbly waiting a task. Does she know it?
