“You have taken it for granted,” continued Belinda, “that I am still secretly attached to him; and you take it for granted that I am restrained only by fear of Lady Anne Percival, my aunt, and the world, from breaking off with Mr. Vincent: if you will read the letter, which I was writing to him when you came into the room, perhaps you will be convinced of your mistake.”
“Read a letter to Mr. Vincent at such a time as this! then I will go and read my packet in my own room,” cried Lady Delacour, rising hastily, with evident displeasure.
“Not even your displeasure, my dear friend,” said Belinda, “can alter my determination to behave with consistency and openness towards Mr. Vincent; and I can bear your anger, for I know it arises from your regard for me.”
“I never loved you so little as at this instant, Belinda.”
“You will do me justice when you are cool.”
“Cool!” repeated Lady Delacour, as she was about to leave the room, “I never wish to be as cool as you are, Belinda! So, after all, you love Mr. Vincent—you’ll marry Mr. Vincent!”
“I never said so,” replied Belinda: “you have not read my letter. Oh, Lady Delacour, at this instant—you should not reproach me.”
“I did you injustice,” cried Lady Delacour, as she now looked at Belinda’s letter. “Send it—send it—you have said the very thing you ought; and now sit down with me to this packet of Clarence Hervey’s—be just to him, as you are to Mr. Vincent, that’s all I ask—give him a fair hearing:—now for it.”