We met Lady Powis returning from a visit to her poultry-yard.—Where are my two runabouts going now? she said.—Only for a little walk, madam, reply'd Lord Darcey.
You are a sauce-box, said she, shaking him by the hand;—but don't go, my Lord, too far with Miss Warley, nodding and smiling on him at the same time.—She gave me a sweet affectionate kiss, as I pass'd her; and cried out, You are a couple of pretty strollers, are you not!—But away together; only I charge you, my Lord, calling after him, remember you are not to go too far with my dear girl.
We directed our steps towards the walk that leads to the Hermitage, neither of us seeming in harmony of spirits.—His Lordship still complaining of his head, I propos'd going back before we had gone ten paces from the house.
Would Miss Warley then prevent me, said he, from the last satisfaction! might ever enjoy?—You don't know, madam, how long—it is impossible to say how long—if ever I should be so happy again—I look forward to Wednesday with impatience;—if that should be propitious,—Thursday will unravel mysteries; it will clear up doubts;—it will perhaps bring on an event which you, my dearest life, may in time reflect on with pleasure;—you, my dearest life!—pardon the liberty,—by heaven! I am sincere!
I was going to withdraw my hand from his: I can be less reserv'd when he is less free.
Don't take your hand from me;—I will call you miss Warley;—I see my freedom is depleasing;—but don't take your hand away; for I was still endeavouring to get it away from him.
Yes, my angel, I will call you Miss Warley.
Talk not at this rate, my Lord: it is a kind of conversation I do not, nor wish to understand.
I see, madam, I am to be unhappy;—I know you have great reason to condemn me:—my whole behaviour, since I first saw you, has been one riddle.
Pray, my Lord, forbear this subject.