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Rh experience—there is a large stock on hand: but somehow or other, nobody's experience ever suits us except our own. Love rarely keeps its secret: it did not in the case before us. Beatrice was ignorant of her feelings: with no rival to enlighten, no vanity to insinuate—with the most romantic of ideal beliefs on the subject, love never entered her head with reference to herself. She was happy without analysing the cause; nay, her very happiness blinded her. Accustomed to think of love as it is depicted in poetry,—poetry which so dwells on its sorrow, its faithlessness, its despair,—she recognised no trace of love in the buoyant feeling, which now to her touched all things with its own gladness. Lorraine was more enlightened. Whether it be from knowing that he has to woo as well as win, a man rarely loves unconsciously. Besides, he had all the knowledge of society, much of observation, something too of remembrance. A woman's heart is like a precious gem, too delicate to bear more than one engraving. The rule does not hold good with the other sex: indeed, I doubt whether it be not an advantage for a lover to be able to contrast the finer qualities of one capable of inspiring a deep and