"I trust we shall always continue friends," said Meyler, holding out to me his hand, which was, as I believe I have before said, without any one exception, the most beautiful hand I ever saw in my life. The tones of his voice, naturally melancholy, were now affectingly so. His eyes were rather sunk, and his manner and appearance touched me deeply. I burst into tears!
He asked me in astonishment what had thus affected me.
I would not tell him that I thought him dying, so I expressed my regret that he had not written to me when he was so ill. "Oh!" answered Meyler, "had we been the best friends in the world, I would not then have admitted you. I hate anybody to come near me while I suffer pain. Their pity, or their attention, only makes me worse."
"I am sure that a hot climate would be of service to you," said I.
"So I am told," replied Meyler, "but I know my own temper, and that nothing which disturbs or irritates my nerves can do me any good; and I hate travelling, and should be out of patience fifty times a day, with the bad roads and various inconveniences one must encounter while journeying on the continent: and then, if I am not to hunt in Leicestershire, I may just as well die at once, since that is the only pursuit I have, and my stud is the only thing I am not tired of."
"Thank you," I answered.
"Oh! perhaps, I still like you; at all events, I like no other woman; but, the fact is, I am naturally a much better friend to men than to women; for I believe and put faith in men, while nothing any of you can say or do ever makes me believe in your affection or sincerity."
This characteristic answer of Meyler's dried up my tears. "Why should I fret about this senseless, heartless being?" thought I.
"You may learn to know and appreciate us better one day or other," I observed coldly.
"I shall go to England in three days," said Meyler. "May I see you constantly till I go?"