LETTER XXVIII.
Lord DARCEY to the Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH.
Barford Abbey.
Full of joy! full of surprize! I dispatch a line by Robert.—Fly, Molesworth, to Mr. Smith's, in Bloomsbury-Square:—tell my dearest, dear Miss Warley, but tell her of it by degrees, that Mr. Powis is her father!—Yes! her father, George;—and the most desirable woman on earth, her mother!—Don't tell her of it neither; you will kill her with surprise.—Confounded luck! that I did not know she was in London.
I shall be with you in less than two hours, after Robert:—I send him on, with orders to ride every horse to death, lest he should be set out for Dover.
Jenkings is now on the road, but he travels too slow for my wishes.—If she is gone, prepare swift horses for me to follow:—I am kept by force to refresh myself.—What refreshment can I want!—Fly, I say, to Miss Powis, now no longer Miss Warley.—Leave her not, I charge you;—stir not from her;—by our friendship, Molesworth, stir not from her 'till you see
DARCEY.