“Why, Sir Robert, there is a young woman below, who is crying and lamenting, and saying she must see Mr. Folliard.”
“Damnation, sir,” exclaimed Sir Robert, “what is this? why am I interrupted in such a manner? I cannot have a gentleman ten minutes in my study, engaged upon private and important business, but in bolts some of you, to interrupt and disturb us. What does the girl want with me?”
“It is not you she wants, sir,” replied the footman, “but his honor, Mr. Folliard.”
“Well, tell her to wait until he is disengaged.”
“No,” replied Mr. Folliard, “send her up at once; what the devil can this be? but you shall witness it.”
The baronet smiled knowingly. “Well,” said he, “Mr. Folliard, upon my honor, I thought you had sown your wild oats many a year ago; and, by the way, according to all accounts—hem—but no matter; this, to be sure, will be rather a late crop.”
“No, sir, I sowed my wild oats in the right season, when I was hot, young, and impetuous; but long before your age, sir, that field had been allowed to lie barren.”
He had scarcely concluded when Miss Herbert, acting upon a plan of her own, which, were not the baronet a man of the most imperturbable coolness, might have staggered, if not altogether confounded him, entered the room.
“Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, with a flood of tears, kneeling before Mr. Folliard, “can you forgive and pardon me?”
“It is not against you, foolish girl, that my resentment is or shall be directed, but against the man who employed you—and there he sits.”