“No, I assure you,” replied she, with quickness, “it was entirely on your account it ever took place.”
“Is it possible!” exclaimed he, pleasure sparkling in his eyes; “then I may re-urge my passion.”
“Ah, tear now, Mr. Howel, you are so very pressing.”
“Do you think,” said he, “she is too ill to see me?”
“Who too ill?”
“Why, Miss Fitzalan.” (For, the moment Ellen knew Lord Mortimer was acquainted with Amanda’s name, she thought there was no longer reason for concealing it from any one, and had informed Howel of it.)
“Miss Fitzalan!” repeated she, staring and changing color.
“Yes, Ellen, the dear, lovely Miss Fitzalan, whom I adore more than language can express, or imagination conceive.”
Adieu to Ellen’s airy hopes: her chagrin could not be concealed; and tears burst from her. The curate tenderly inquired the cause of her emotion; though vain, she was not artful, and could not disguise it. “Why, really, you made such speeches, I thought—and then you looked so. But it is no matter: I pelieve all men are teceitful.”
From her tears and disjointed sentences, he began to suspect something, and his gentle mind was hurt at the idea of giving her pain; anxious, however, to receive his doom from Amanda, he again asked, if she thought he could see her.