“Mrs. Masham told me that you were awake, madam, or I should not—”
“Come in, come in, my dearest Emilie—I am awake—wide awake. Is your mother better?”
“Alas! no, madam!”
“Sit down, my dear, and do not call me madam, so coldly.—I do not deserve it.”
“My dear friend! friend of mamma! my dearest friend!” cried Emilie, bursting into tears, and seizing Mrs. Somers’ hand; “do not accuse me of coldness to you. I am always afraid that my French expressions should sound exaggerated to English ears, and that you should think I say too much to be sincere in expressing my gratitude.”
“My sweet Emilie, who could doubt your sincerity?—none but a brute or a fool: but do not talk to me of gratitude.”
“I must,” said Emilie; “for I feel it.”
“Prove it to me, then, in the manner I like best—in the only manner I like—by putting it in my power to serve you. I do not intrude upon your mother’s confidence—I make no inquiries; but do me the justice to tell me how I can be of use to her—or rather to you. From you I expect frankness. Command my fortune, my time, my credit, my utmost exertions—they are all, they ever have been, they ever shall be, whilst I have life, at the command of my friends. And are not you my friend?”
“Generous lady!—You overpower me with your goodness.”
“No praises, no speeches!—Actions for me!—Tell me how I can serve you.”