I am so pestered with these admirers! Not that I
am so very handsome neither; but, I don't know how it is, I am certainly
very much the taste of the other sex. Followed, flattered, and caressed,
I have cards and compliments in profusion. But I must try to be serious;
for I have, alas! one serious lover. As I promised you to be particular
in my writing, I suppose I must proceed methodically. Yesterday we had a
party to dine. Mr. Boyer was of the number. His attention was
immediately engrossed; and I soon perceived that every word, every
action, and every look was studied to gain my approbation. As he sat
next me at dinner, his assiduity and politeness were pleasing; and as we
walked together afterwards, his conversation was improving. Mine was
sentimental and sedate--perfectly adapted to the taste of my gallant.
Nothing, however, was said particularly expressive of his apparent
wishes. I studiously avoided every kind of discourse which might lead to
this topic. I wish not for a declaration from any one, especially from
one whom I could not repulse and do not intend to encourage at present.
His conversation, so similar to what I had often heard from a similar
character, brought a deceased friend to mind, and rendered me somewhat
pensive. I retired directly after supper. Mr. Boyer had just taken
leave.
Mrs. Richman came into my chamber as she was passing to her own.
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