I pretend not, my Lord, to answer for what may happen; I have never seen the person yet. I was going to say something further, I have really forgot what, when he turn'd from me, and walked up and down the room with a seeming discomposure.
If you are sincere in what you have said, Miss Warley; if you are really sincere, I do pronounce—Here he burst open the door, and flew out the instant Sir James and Lady Powis entered.
When the tea was made, a footman was sent to Lord Darcey; but he was no where to be found.
This is very strange, said her Ladyship; Lord Darcey never used to be out of the way at tea-time. I declare I am quite uneasy; perhaps he may be ill.
Oh! cry'd Sir James, don't hurry yourself; I warrant he is got into one of his old reveries, and forgets the time.
I was quite easy. I knew his abrupt departure was nothing but an air:—an air of consequence, I suppose.—However, I was willing to be convinced, so did not move till I saw the Gentleman sauntering up the lawn. As no one perceived him but myself, I slid out to the housekeeper, and told her, if her Lady enquir'd for me, I was gone home to write Letters by to-morrow's post.
You have enough of it now, I believe, my dear Lady; two long letters by the same packet:—but you are the repository of my joy, my grief, the very inmost secrets of my soul.—You, my dear Lady, have the whole heart of
F. WARLEY.