“So difficult, that I find it quite impossible,” said Lady Delacour, with an incredulous smile.
“Depend upon it, my dear Lady Delacour,” said the dowager, laying the convincing weight of her arm upon her ladyship’s, “depend upon it, my dear Lady Delacour, that my information is correct. Guess whom I had it from.”
“Willingly. But first let me tell you, that I have seen Mr. Hervey within this half hour, and I never saw a man look less like a bridegroom.”
“Indeed! well, I’ve heard, too, that he didn’t like the match: but what a pity, when you saw him yourself this morning, that you didn’t get all the particulars out of him. But let him look like what he will, you’ll find that my information is perfectly correct. Guess whom I had it from—from Mrs. Margaret Delacour: it was at her house that Clarence Hervey first met Mr. Hartley, who, as I mentioned, is the father of the young lady. There was a charming scene, and some romantic story, about his finding the girl in a cottage, and calling her Virginia something or other, but I didn’t clearly understand about that. However, this much is certain, that the girl, as her father told Mrs. Delacour, is desperately in love with Mr. Hervey, and they are to be married immediately. Depend upon it, you’ll find my information correct. Good morning to you. Lord bless me! now I recollect, I once heard that Mr. Hervey was a great admirer of Miss Portman,” said the dowager.
The inquisitive dowager, whose curiosity was put upon a new scent, immediately fastened her eyes upon Belinda’s face; but from that she could make out nothing. Was it because she had not the best eyes, or because there was nothing to be seen? To determine this question, she looked through her glass, to take a clearer view; but Lady Delacour drew off her attention, by suddenly exclaiming—“My dear Lady Boucher, when you go back to town, do send me a bottle of concentrated anima of quassia.”
“Ah! ah! have I made a convert of you at last?” said the dowager; and, satisfied with the glory of this conversion, she departed.
“Admire my knowledge of human nature, my dear Belinda,” said Lady Delacour. “Now she will talk, at the next place she goes to, of nothing but of my faith in anima of quassia; and she will forget to make a gossiping story out of that most imprudent hint I gave her, about Clarence Hervey’s having been an admirer of yours.”
“Do not leave the room, Belinda; I have a thousand things to say to you, my dear.”
“Excuse me, at present, my dear Lady Delacour; I am impatient to write a few lines to Mr. Vincent. He went away—”
“In a fit of jealousy, and I am glad of it.”