A Man Does Not Recover

Vanity, Not Love, Has Been My Folly.

Vanity Was The Beginning And The End Of Sir Walter Elliot's Character; Vanity Of Person And Of Situation. He Had Been Remarkably Handsome In His Youth; And, At Fifty-four, Was Still A Very Fine Man. Few Women Could Think More Of Their Personal Appearance Than He Did, Nor Could The Valet Of Any New Made Lord Be More Delighted With The Place He Held In Society. He Considered The Blessing Of Beauty As Inferior Only To The Blessing Of A Baronetcy; And The Sir Walter Elliott, Who United These Gifts, Was The Constant Object Of His Warmest Respect And Devotion.

Emma Woodhouse, Handsome, Clever, And Rich, With A Comfortable Home And Happy Disposition, Seemed To Unite Some Of The Best Blessings Of Existence; And Had Lived Nearly Twenty-one Years In The World With Very Little To Distress Or Vex Her.

Were I To Fall In Love, Indeed, It Would Be A Different Thing! But I Never Have Been In Love; It Is Not My Way, Or My Nature; And I Do Not Think I Ever Shall.

Here I Have Opportunity Enough For The Exercise Of My Talent, As The Chief Of My Time Is Spent In Conversation.