You may believe, my friend, how much this generous defence of the step he had taken, attributing every thing to me, and deprecating his worthy self, affected me.  I played with a cork one while, with my rings another; looking down, and every way but on the company; for they gazed too much upon me all the time; so that I could only glance a tearful eye now and then upon the dear man; and when it would overflow, catch in my handkerchief the escaped fugitives that would start unbidden beyond their proper limits, though I often tried, by a twinkling motion, to disperse the gathering water, before it had formed itself into drops too big to be restrained.  All the company praised the dear generous speaker; and he was pleased to say farther, “Although, my good friends, I can truly say, that with all the pride of family, and the insolence of fortune, which once made me doubt whether I should not sink too low, if I made my Pamela my mistress (for I should then have treated her not ungenerously, and should have suffered her, perhaps, to call herself by my name), I have never once repented of what I have done; on the contrary, always rejoiced in it, and it has been, from the first day of our marriage, my pride and my boast (and shall be, let others say what they will), that I can call such an excellence, and such a purity, which I so little deserve, mine; and I look down with contempt upon the rashness of all who reflect upon me; for they can have no notion of my happiness or her merit.”

“O dear Sir, how do you overrate my poor merit!—­Some persons are happy in a life of comforts, but mine’s a life of joy!—­One rapturous instance follows another so fast, that I know not how to bear them.”

“Whew!” whistled Sir Jacob.  “Whereabouts am I?—­I hope by-and-by you’ll come down to our pitch, that one may put in a word or two with you.”

“May you be long thus blest and happy together!” said Lady Davers.  “I know not which to admire most, the dear girl that never was bad, or the dear man, who, having been bad, is now so good!”

Said Lord Davers, “There is hardly any bearing these moving scenes, following one another so quick, as my sister says.”

The countess was pleased to say, that till now she had been at a loss to form any notion of the happiness of the first pair before the Fall; but now, by so fine an instance as this, she comprehended it in all its force.  “God continue you to one another,” added she, “for a credit to the state, and to human nature.”

Mr. H., having his elbows on the table, folded his hands, shaking them, and looking down—­“Egad, this is uncommon life, that it is!  Your two souls, I can see that, are like well-tuned instruments; but they are too high set for me, a vast deal.”

“The best thing,” said Lady Davers (always severe upon her poor nephew), “thou ever saidst.  The music must be equal to that of Orpheus, which can make such a savage as thee dance to it.  I charge thee, say not another word tonight.”—­“Why, indeed, aunt,” returned he, laughing, “I believe it was pretty well said for your foolish fellow:  though it was by chance, I must confess; I did not think of it.”—­“That I believe,” replied my lady; “if thou hadst, thou’dst not have spoken so well.”