Caroline sighed—“Alas! no, madam, it is not.”
“Why so, my love? He will not leave town in the morning without my commands; and I am at your command. A note, a line, a word, will set all to rights.”
“But that word I cannot say.”
“Then let me say it for you. Trust your delicacy to me—I will be dignity itself. Can you doubt it? Believe me, much as I wish to see you what and where you ought to be in society, I would not—there it is, begging Lady Frances Arlington’s pardon, that Mrs. Falconer and I differ in character essentially, and de fond en comble. I would never yield a point of real delicacy; I would not descend the thousandth part of a degree from proper dignity, to make you—any more than to make myself—a princess. And now, without reserve, open your heart, and tell me what you wish to have done or said.”
“Nothing, my dear Lady Jane.”
“Nothing? my dear Caroline.”
“I have no more to say—I have said all I can say.”
The carriage stopped at their own door.
“We are all in the dark,” said Lady Jane: “when I have more light I shall be able better to tell what we are about.”
“Now, I can see as well as hear,” continued she, as her woman met her with lights. “Keppel, you may go to bed; we shall not want you to-night.”