Oons, madam! said he, and he kimboed his arms, and strutted up to me. Now for a cuff, thought I. I was half afraid of it: but out of the room again capered he.
Lord bless me, said I, what a passionate creature is this!
Lord and Lady L—— both turned from me with indignation. But no wonder if one, that they both did. They are a silly pair; and I believe have agreed to keep each other in countenance in all they do.
But Emily affected me. She sat before in one corner of the room, weeping; and just then ran to me, and, wrapping her arms about me, Dear, dear Lady G——, said she, for Heaven's sake, think of what our Miss Byron said; 'Don't jest away your own happiness.' I don't say who is in fault: but, my dear lady, do you condescend. It looks pretty in a woman to condescend. Forgive me; I will run to my lord, and I will beg of him——
Away she ran, without waiting for an answer—and, bringing in the passionate wretch, hanging on his arm—You must not, my lord, indeed you must not be so passionate. Why, my lord, you frighted me; indeed you did. Such a word I never heard from your lordship's mouth—
Ay, my lord, said I, you give yourself pretty airs! Don't you? and use pretty words; that a child shall be terrified at them! But come, come, ask my pardon, for leaving me to dine without you.
Was not that tender?—Yet out went Lord and Lady L——. To be sure they did right, if they withdrew in hopes these kind words would have been received as reconciliatory ones; and not in displeasure with me, as I am half-afraid they did: for their good-nature (worthy souls!) does sometimes lead them into misapprehensions. I kindly laid my hand on his arm again.—He was ungracious.—Nay, my lord, don't once more reject me with disdain—If you do—I then smiled most courteously. Carry not your absurdities, my lord, too far: and I took his hand:—[There, Harriet, was condescension!]—I protest, sir, if you give yourself any more of these airs, you will not find me so condescending. Come, come, tell me you are sorry, and I will forgive you.
Sorry! madam; sorry!—I am indeed sorry, for your provoking airs!
Why that's not ill said—But kimboed arms, my lord! are you not sorry for such an air? And Oons! are you not sorry for such a word? and for such looks too? and for quarreling with your dinner?—I protest, my lord, you make one of us look like a child who flings away his bread and butter because it has not glass windows upon it—
Not for one moment forbear, madam!—