"I came to inquire whether or not you are acquainted with a Mr. Robinson," said I.
"I am," replied Miss Wilmot. "He visits me frequently." She drew off her glove as she spoke, and passing her hand over her eyes, I observed on her finger a ring, which I knew to have been my husband's.
"I have nothing more to say," added I, "but to request that you will favour me with Mr. Robinson's address; I have something which I wish to convey to him."
She smiled, and cast her eyes over my figure. My dress was a morning déshabille of India muslin, with a bonnet of straw, and a white lawn cloak bordered with lace.
"You are Mr. Robinson's wife," said she, with a trembling voice. "I am sure you are; and probably this ring was yours; pray receive it—"
I declined taking the ring. She continued, "Had I known that Mr. Robinson was the husband of such a woman—"
I rose to leave her. She added, "I never will see him more,—unworthy man,—I never will again receive him."
I could make no reply, but rose and departed.
On my return to Hatton Garden, I found my husband waiting dinner. I concealed my chagrin. We had made a party that evening to Drury Lane Theatre, and from thence to a select concert at the Count de Belgeioso's, in Portman Square. Lord Lyttelton was to join us at both places. We went to the play; but my agitation had produced such a violent headache that I was obliged to send an apology for not keeping our engagement at the imperial ambassador's.
On the following morning I spoke to Mr. Robinson respecting Miss Wilmot. He did not deny that he knew such a person, that he had visited her; but he threw all the blame of his indiscretion on Lord Lyttelton. He requested to know who had informed me of his conduct. I refused to tell; and he had too high an opinion of his false associate to suspect him of such treachery.