Not a word of reply did this demand; or if it had, not a word could she have given.
“And now, Madam, the reason of my desire to speak with you—is, to know the means you think most proper to pursue, in order to acquaint Lord Frederick, that notwithstanding this late repulse, there are hopes of your partiality in his favour.”
“Defer the explanation,” she replied eagerly.
“I beg your pardon—it cannot be. Besides, how can you indulge a disposition thus unpitying? Even so ardently did I desire to render the man who loves you happy, that though he came armed against my life, had I not reflected, that previous to our engagement it would appear like fear, and the means of bartering for his forgiveness, I should have revealed your sentiments the moment I had seen him. When the engagement was over, I was too impatient to acquaint you with his safety, to think then on gratifying him. And indeed, the delicacy of the declaration, after the many denials which you have no doubt given him, should be considered. I therefore consult your opinion upon the manner in which it shall be made.”
“Mr. Dorriforth, can you allow nothing to the moments of surprise, and that pity, which the fate impending inspired? and which might urge me to express myself of Lord Frederick, in a manner my cooler thoughts will not warrant?”
“There was nothing in your expressions, my dear Miss Milner, the least equivocal—if you were off your guard when you pleaded for Lord Frederick, as I believe you were, you said more sincerely what you thought; and no discreet, or rather indiscreet attempts to retract, can make me change these sentiments.”
“I am very sorry,” she replied, confused and trembling.
“Why sorry? Come give me commission to reveal your partiality. I’ll not be too hard upon you—a hint from me will do. Hope is ever apt to interpret the slightest words to its own use, and a lover’s hope is beyond all others, sanguine.”
“I never gave Lord Frederick hope.”
“But you never plunged him into despair.”