“If-if you please;-I believe so,-” said I, stammering.
“Well, then, my love, I think I was speaking of the regret it was natural you should feel upon quitting those from whom you had received civility and kindness, with so little certainty of ever seeing them again, or being able to return their good offices. These are circumstances that afford but melancholy reflections to young minds; and the affectionate disposition of my Evelina, open to all social feelings, must be hurt more than usual by such considerations.-You are silent, my dear. Shall I name those whom I think most worthy the regret I speak of? We shall then see if our opinions coincide.”
Still I said nothing, and he continued.
“In your London journal, nobody appears in a more amiable, a more respectable light than Lord Orville; and perhaps-”
“I knew what you would say,” cried I, hastily, “and I have long feared where your suspicions would fall; but indeed, Sir, you are mistaken: I hate Lord Orville,-he is the last man in the world in whose favour I should be prejudiced.”
I stopped; for Mr. Villars looked at me with such infinite surprise, that my own warmth made me blush.
“You hate Lord Orville!” repeated he.
I could make no answer; but took from my pocket-book the letter, and giving it to him, “See, Sir,” said I, “how differently the same man can talk and write!”
He read it three times before he spoke; and then said, “I am so much astonished, that I know not what I read. When had you this letter?”
I told him. Again he read it, and, after considering its contents some time, said, “I can form but one conjecture concerning this most extraordinary performance: he must certainly have been intoxicated when he wrote it.”