“All art and baseness to prevent your recantation!”
“No, Sir, no,” cried she, with quickness; “whatever may be the truth of your painting in general, all that concerns—”
Ashamed of the vindication she intended, which yet in her own mind was firm and animated, she stopt, and left the sentence unfinished.
“In what place were you to meet?” said Mr Monckton; “you can at least send to him there.”
“We were only to have met,” answered she, in much confusion, “at the last moment,—and that would be too late—it would be too—I could not, without some previous notice, break a promise which I gave without any restriction.”
“Is this your only objection?”
“It is; but it is one which I cannot conquer.”
“Then you would give up this ill-boding connection, but from notions of delicacy with regard to the time?”
“Indeed I meant it, before you came.”
“I, then, will obviate this objection; give me but the commission, either verbally or in writing, and I will undertake to find him out, and deliver it before night.”