“Now, Caroline, take care: remember your countenance is open to me, if not your heart.”
“Both, both are open to you, my dear friend!” cried Caroline. “And Lord William, who said you deserved it from him, desired me to speak as freely for him as for myself.”
“He’s a noble creature! There’s the difference between reserve of character and reserve of manner—I always said so. Go on, my dear.”
Caroline related every thing that had passed; and Lady Jane, when she had finished, said, “A couple of children!—But a couple of charming children. Now I, that have common sense, must set it all to rights, and turn no prettily into yes.”
“It cannot be done,” said Caroline.
“Pardon me, solemn fair one, it can.”
“Pardon me, my dear Lady Jane, it must not be done.”
“Children should not say must,” cried Lady Jane, in a playful tone; for never did she feel in more delightful spirits than at this moment, when all her hopes for Caroline, as she thought, were realized; “and to complete ‘the pleasing history,’ no obstacle remained,” she said, “but the Chinese mother-of-pearl curtain of etiquette to be withdrawn, by a dexterous, delicate hand, from between Shuey-Ping-Sin and her lover.” Lady Jane, late as it was at night, took up a pen, to write a note to Lord William.
“What are you going to do, may I ask, my dear madam?” cried Caroline.
“My dear madam, I am going my own way—let me alone.”