Come, come, now you have broke in upon us, you may stay—But another time, when you know me to be retired with a friend so dear to me, let it enter into your head, that no third person, unsent for, can be welcome.
Poor man!—How he loves her!—His countenance changed at once to the humble placid: he looked as if he had rather be in fault than she.
Oh! how little did she make him look!
But he has often, as well as in this instance, let her see her power over him. I am afraid she will use it. I now see it is and will be his misfortune that she can vex him without being vexed herself: and what may he expect, who can be treated with feigned displeasure, which, while it seems to be in earnest to him, will be a jest to his wife?
I was very angry with her, when we were alone; and told her, that she would be an enemy, I was afraid, of her own happiness. But she only laughed at me: Happiness, my dear! said she: that only is happiness which we think so. If I can be as happy in my way, as you can be in yours, shall I not pursue it? Your happiness, child, is in the still life. I love not a dead calm: now a tempest, now a refreshing breeze, I shall know how to enjoy the difference—My brother will not be here to turn jest into earnest; as might perhaps be the effect of his mediation—But, heigh-ho, Harriet! that the first week were over, and I had got into my throne!
She ended with an Italian air, contrasted with another heigh-ho; and left me for a few moments.
Poor Lord G——! said I, looking after her.
She returned soon. Poor Lord G——! repeated she: those were the piteous words you threw after me—But if I should provoke him, do you think he would not give me a cuff, or so?—You know he can't return joke for joke; and he must revenge himself some way—If that should be the case, Poor Charlotte, I hope you would say—
Not if you deserved it.
Deserve a cuff, Harriet!—Well, but I am afraid I shall.