“But pray, what is become of Mr. Hartley?” looking round: “I do not see him.”
“No: for I have hid him,” said Lady Delacour: “he shall be forthcoming presently.”
“Dear Mr. Clarence Hervey, what have you done with my Virginia?” said Mrs. Ormond, coming into the room.
“Dear Mrs. Ormond, what have you done with her?” replied Clarence. “By your mistaken kindness, by insisting upon doing us both good against our wills, you were very near making us both miserable for life. But I blame nobody; I have no right to blame any one so much as myself. All this has arisen from my own presumption and imprudence. Nothing could be more absurd than my scheme of educating a woman in solitude to make her fit for society. I might have foreseen what must happen, that Virginia would consider me as her tutor, her father, not as her lover, or her husband; that with the most affectionate of hearts, she could for me feel nothing but gratitude.”
“Nothing but gratitude!” repeated Mrs. Ormond, with a degree of amazement in her countenance, which made every body present smile: “I am sure I thought she was dying for love of you.”
“My dear Belinda,” whispered Lady Delacour, “if I might judge of the colour of this cheek, which has been for some moments permanent crimson, I should guess that you were beginning to find out of what use the sun is to the dial.”
“You will not let me hear what Mr. Hervey is saying,” replied Belinda; “I am very curious.”
“Curiosity is a stronger passion than love, as I told him just now,” said Lady Delacour.
In spite of all his explanations, Mrs. Ormond could not be made to comprehend Virginia’s feelings. She continually repeated, “But it is impossible for Virginia, or for any body, to be in love with a picture.”
“It is not said that she is in love with a picture,” replied Mrs. Delacour, “though even for that I could find you a precedent.”