“That would not have been deceit, Madam, but merely good manners.”
“I never, Mr. Sandford, sacrificed truth to politeness.”
“Except when the country has been proposed, and you thought it politeness to appear satisfied.”
“And I was satisfied, till I recollected that you might probably be of the party—then, every grove was changed into a wilderness, every rivulet into a stagnated pool, and every singing bird into a croaking raven.”
“A very poetical description,” returned he calmly. “But, Miss Milner, you need not have had any apprehensions of my company in the country, for I understand the seat to which your guardian means to go, belongs to you; and you may depend upon it, Madam, that I shall never enter a house in which you are the mistress.”
“Nor any house, I am certain, Mr. Sandford, but in which you are yourself the master.”
“What do you mean, Madam? (and for the first time he elevated his voice,) am I the master here?”
“Your servants,” replied she, looking at the company, “will not tell you so; but I do.”
“You condescend, Mr. Sandford,” cried Mrs. Horton, “in talking so much to a young heedless woman; but I know you do it for her good.”
“Well, Miss Milner,” cried Dorriforth, (and the most cutting thing he could say,) “since I find my proposal of the country has put you out of humour, I shall mention it no more.”