Thus passed a miserable week; Monckton still merely alive, Delvile detained at Ostend, and Cecilia tortured alike by what was recently passed, actually present, and fearfully expected; when one morning she was told a gentleman upon business desired immediately to speak with her.
She hastily obeyed the summons; the constant image of her own mind, Delvile, being already present to her, and a thousand wild conjectures upon what had brought him back, rapidly occurring to her.
Her expectations, however, were ill answered, for she found an entire stranger; an elderly man, of no pleasant aspect or manners.
She desired to know his business.
“I presume, madam, you are the lady of this house?”
She bowed an assent.
“May I take the liberty, madam, to ask your name?'
“My name, sir?”
“You will do me a favour, madam, by telling it me.”
“Is it possible you are come hither without already knowing it?”