John Oliver Hobbes

“ Emily did not hear. She was listening to the echo of Sacheverell's footsteps as it grew fainter and finally ceased.
"I believe you rather like him," said Sir Richard, jealously.
"He was interesting. He has made me forget three headaches!"
"Yes? A man may give his whole life to a woman, and it won't mean so much to her as if he had once jawed her out of neuralgia!" [6]
"And a woman," said Emily, "may give her soul for a man, and he won't think so much of her as if—she had jilted him for somebody else."
Sir Richard laughed. "We must not take human nature too seriously! ”

“ She was wishing that his eyes were dark and earnest—like Sacheverell's: that his face had the nobility of Sacheverell's—that he was Sacheverell.
"Don't dream about me, Emily," said Sir Richard; "that sort of ambition is called dreaming. I shall only grieve you when you wake up. I live to amuse myself. I think life is the most lively thing going. I want to enjoy every hour of it. But I must enjoy it my way. And it is such a different way from yours—so very, very different. If you care for me ever so little, let it be for me as I am. I should always be jealous of the imaginary me. ”

“ He walked away from her and began to pace the floor. "How long is this to go on?" he said. "What is the limit to a man's patience?"
"What do you mean?" said Emily. "What are you talking about?"
"I mean—what are we waiting for?"
"I suppose," said Emily, "we are waiting for Carlotta—and tea." Women have boundless faith in the sobering effect of commonplace. It is the remedy they administer to disordered passions.
Sir Richard looked at her with something like anger. "This is not a subject which can be changed that way. I must speak. I should despise myself if I did not. ”