I suppose you would laugh to hear how often I have opened and shut the door;—how often look'd out at the window,—or the multiplicity of times examined my watch since ten this morning!—Needless would it likewise be to recount the impatient steps I have taken by the road-side, attentive to the false winds, which would frequently cheat me into a belief, that my heart's treasure was approaching.—Hark! I should say, that must be wheels;—stop and pause;—walk forwards;—stop again, till every sound have died upon my ear.
Harrass'd by expectation, I saunter'd a back way to Jenkings's;—enquired of Mrs. Jenkings, what time she thought her husband might be home; and taking Edmund with me to my former walk, determined to sound his inclinations.—I waved mentioning Miss Warley's name till we had gone near a quarter of a mile from the house; still expecting he would begin the subject, which at this juncture I suppose particularly engaged his attention; but perceiving he led to things quite opposite, I drew him out in the following manner.
So you really think, Edmund, your father will not be out after it is dark?
I have not known, my Lord, that he has for many years; rather than venture, I believe, he would stop the night at Oxford. Very composedly he said this, for I watched his looks narrowly.—
Edmund, confess, confess frankly, said I; has not this day been the longest you ever knew?
The longest I ever knew! Faith your Lordship was never more out: far from thinking so, I am startled to find how fast the hours have flown; and want the addition of at least three, to answer letters which my father's business requires.
Business, Edmund! and does business really engross so much of your attention, when you know who is expected in the evening? Ah! Edmund, you are a sly fellow: never tell me, you want to lengthen out the tedious hours of absence.
Tedious hours of absence! Ho! ho! my Lord, I see now what you are at; your Lordship can never suppose me such a fool as to—
Fool!—My supposition, Edmund, pronounces you a man of sense; but you mistake my meaning.
I do not mistake, my Lord; surely it must be the height of folly to lift my thoughts to Miss Warley. Suppose my father can give me a few thousands,—are these sufficient to purchase beauty, good sense, with every accomplishment?—No, no, my Lord, I am not such a vain fellow;—Miss Warley was never born for Edmund Jenkings—She told me so, the first moment I beheld her.