"The same," said he.
She expressed her surprise that he should be going her way.
"'Tis strange," said he; "but to me most agreeable."
"And to me too, for that matter," said she.
Sir George observed her eyes were red, and, to divert her mind and keep up her spirits, launched into a flow of small talk.
In the midst of it, Mercy leaned back in the coach, and began to cry bitterly. So much for that mode of consolation.
Upon this he faced the situation, and begged her not to grieve. He praised the good action she had done, and told her how everybody admired her for it, especially himself.
At that she gave him her hand in silence, and turned away her pretty head. He carried her hand respectfully to his lips; and his manly heart began to yearn over this suffering virtue; so grave, so dignified, so meek. He was no longer a young man; he began to talk to her like a friend. This tone, and the soft sympathetic voice in which a gentleman speaks to a woman in trouble, unlocked her heart, and for the first time in her life she was led to talk about herself.
She opened her heart to him. She told him she was not the woman to pine for any man. Her youth, her health, and love of occupation would carry her through. What she mourned was the loss of esteem, and the blot upon her child. At that she drew the baby with inexpressible tenderness, and yet with a half defiant air, closer to her bosom.
Sir George assured her she would lose the esteem of none but fools. "As for me," said he, "I always respected you, but now I revere you. You are a martyr, and an angel."