MRS. SHORT. (in an absent manner, scarcely looking at it) Yes, I see.
MRS. SWEET. (picking up the note which has fallen out of the book) Why, here’s a note. Louisa, you are dreaming—see, here’s a note.
MRS. SHORT. (quickly) A note?
MRS. SWEET. Yes—fallen out of the book. Is it for us, do you think? I seem to know the hand—to be sure, it is Mr. Billington’s.
MRS. SHORT. (glancing at the writing) No, no—put it back again—put it back again into the book.
MRS. SWEET. What for? What a hurry you’re in!
MRS. SHORT. (trying to get hold of the note, which MRS. SWEET holds from her) No, my dear Fanny, we have no right to read it; consider, it may have been sent in mistake!
MRS. SWEET. There appears to be neither address nor signature. Oh, it’s some message about returning the book. (reads) “I waited for you all the morning—I am afraid to ask why you didn’t come—It is now five days since I saw you—this is cruel; but I implore of you to give me an interview to-morrow in the lane at the back of the house, at two o’clock, if it be only for ten minutes. We shall meet this evening, but I shall have no opportunity of being alone with you. You will not refuse if you return the feelings that are consuming me.”
MRS. SHORT. (interrupting her in great confusion) Fanny, how can you! pray put it back again!
MRS. SWEET. (continuing to read) “If you grant my request carry the bouquet of violets to-night, (she stops and looks at MRS. SHORT’S bouquet, then goes on) which I have taken measures for your receiving from a safe hand which can awaken no suspicion.” An extraordinary epistle! (to MRS. SHORT, who is in great confusion, and hangs down her head) That bouquet!—those conscious blushes! Very pretty, upon my honour! Louisa, what am I to think of all this?