“The offer I made—the compliments I paid in the note I wrote this morning, were all necessary to cover your mistakes of the night.”
“Made! Wrote!” cried the young lady, with terror in her voice and eyes: “Good Heavens! mother, what have you done?”
“I had no doubt at the time I wrote,” continued Mrs. Falconer, coolly, “I had no other idea, but that Miss Caroline Percy would decline.”
“Oh! ma’am,” cried Georgiana, half crying, then stamping with passion, “Oh! ma’am, how could you imagine, or affect to imagine, that that girl, that odious girl, who was born to be my plague, with all her affected humility, would decline?—Decline!—no, she will be transported to come sweeping in, in gorgeous tragedy—Zara! Marcia! If the whole family can beg or borrow a dress for her, we are undone—that’s our only chance. Oh! mother, what possessed you to do this?”
“Gently, pretty Passionate, and trust to my judgment in future,” putting into her daughter’s hands Mrs. Percy’s note.
“Miss Caroline Percy—sorry—out of her power!—Oh! charming!—a fine escape!” cried Georgiana, delighted. “You may be sure it was for want of the dress, though, mamma.”
“No matter—but about yours, my dear?”
“Oh! yes, ma’am—my dress; that’s the only difficulty now.”
“I certainly wish you, my darling, to appear well, especially as all the world will be here: the two Clays—by-the-bye, here’s their letter—they come to-morrow—and in short the whole world; but, as to money, there’s but one way of putting your father into good-humour enough with you to touch upon that string.”
“One way—well, if there be one way—any way.”