To see Bettina boil the tea (steep it or draw it, she said was the proper phrase) was as pretty a sight as one could wish to behold, and when she poured it out in thin china cups, handing one to me and taking one herself, her pride in following the fashion of modish ladies was as touching as it was simple and beautiful.

It was almost more than my feeble resolutions could withstand, so when I was about to leave I had a great battle with myself and was defeated, for I seized her hands, and although I said nothing, she knew what was in my mind, so she hung her head, murmuring:-- "If you are willing to make me more unhappy than I am." "Not for the world, Bettina," I answered, rallying against myself.
"Goodnight." "Good night.

Now I know you are my friend," she answered softly, holding my hands for a moment, then dropping them suddenly and turning from me.
I have refrained from speaking of Mary Hamilton of late, partly because I did not see her frequently at this time, and partly because the shame I felt at the time of which I am now writing comes surging over me whenever I touch upon the subject.

Not that I did anything of which I need be ashamed, but because I remember so vividly my motives and desires that the old sensations return, even at this distant day, as a perfume, a strain of music, the soft balminess of spring, or the sharp bite of winter's frost may recall a moment of the past, and set the heart throbbing or still it as of yore.
After leaving Bettina, I went back to Whitehall and dressed for a ball which the queen was giving that night.

It was an unfortunate time for me to see Mary.