“Indeed I am not, father,” replied Isabel, with a gravity of manner which, with her, was almost unprecedented. “If he have aught to say to me, and to me alone, I will hear it alone, or not at all.”
“You see, gentlemen,” said Cæsar, “I should be very happy—but Venus has stopped my breath. I have been always a slave to the sex. Mahomet went to the mountain; and it is insolence in a rushlight to rival the moon. Do not entreat me, for I'm inflexible.”
“No one entreats you, man,” said George: “if Isabel Plympton, and such as you, have any private business with each other, I, for one, will not trouble you with my presence.”
Young Wharton had no sooner uttered these words, than he walked out of the room.
“Good Heavens!” exclaimed the Doctor, “I never saw George so roused. Sir,” added he, addressing the attorney, “he's the quietest creature in existence,—gentle as a lamb,—meek as a dove; his enemies, if it were possible for one of his kind disposition to have any, would say he was even too passive. I'm quite alarmed;—pray come with me,—pray do: assist me, sir, to soothe him. I'm quite unused to such events, and scarcely know how to act.—Excuse me, sir, a moment.”
The last words of the Doctor were addressed, as he drew the attorney out of the room, to the Little Black Porter. “Don't mention it, sir,” said Cæsar; “if we can't make free, why should crickets be respected? And now, young lady, as we are quite alone—”
“You come from Godfrey Fairfax,” interrupted Isabel.
“Bless my soul!” exclaimed Cæsar;—“a witch!—the world's at an end! But I ascribe it to Cupid. How do you know—”
“I guessed—I was sure of it:—I dreamt of him last night. Give me his letter.”
“His letter?”