“No, ma'am; you only said Tilney.”
“Is it possible? and did n't you tell him, Mr. Maitland?”
“I? I knew nothing of the road. To tell you the truth,” added he, in a whisper, “I cared very little where it led, so long as I sat at your side.”
“Very flattering, indeed! Have we passed the turn to the lower road very far, George?”
“Yes, ma'am; it's a good five miles behind us, and a bad bit of road too,—all fresh stones.”
“And you were so anxious to call at the cottage?” said she, addressing Maitland, with a smile of some significance.
“Nothing of the kind. I made some sort of silly promise to make a visit as I passed. I 'm sure I don't know why, or to gratify whom.”
“Oh, cruel Mr. Maitland, false Mr. Maitland I how can you say this? But are we to go back?—that is the question; for I see George is very impatient, and trying to make the horses the same.”
“Of course not. Go back! it was all the coachman's fault,—took the wrong turning, and never discovered his blunder till we were—I don't know where.”
“Tilney, George,—go on,” said she; then turning to Maitland, “and do you imagine that the charming Sally Graham or the fascinating Rebecca will understand such flimsy excuses as these, or that the sturdy old Commodore will put up with them?”