I could give you many respectful instances too, of his receding, when he has desired to see what I have been writing, and I have told him to whom, and begged to be excused.  One such instance I can give since I began this letter.  This is it: 

I put it in my bosom, when he came up:  he saw me do so: 

“Are you writing, my dear, what I must not see?”

“I am writing to Miss Darnford, Sir:  and she begged you might not at present.”

“This augments my curiosity, Pamela.  What can two such ladies write, that I may not see?”

“If you won’t be displeased, Sir, I had rather you would not, because she desires you may not see her letter, nor this my answer, till the letter is in her hands.”

“Then I will not,” returned Mr. B.

Will this instance, my dear, come up to your demand for one, where he recedes from his own will, in complaisance to mine?

But now, as to what both our notions and our practice are on the article of my retirements, and whether he breaks in upon them unceremoniously, and without apology, let the conversation I promised inform you, which began on the following occasion.

Mr. B. rode out early one morning, within a few days past, and did not return till the afternoon; an absence I had not been used to of late; and breakfasting and dining without him being also a new thing with me, I had such an impatience to see him, having expected him at dinner, that I was forced to retire to my closet, to try to divert it, by writing; and the gloomy conclusion of my last was then the subject.  He returned about four o’clock, and indeed did not tarry to change his riding-dress, as your politeness, my dear friend, would perhaps have expected; but came directly up to me, with an impatience to see me, equal to my own, when he was told, upon enquiry, that I was in my closet.

I heard his welcome step, as he came up stairs; which generally, after a longer absence than I expect, has such an effect upon my fond heart, that it gives a responsive throb for every step he takes towards me, and beats quicker and faster, as he comes nearer.

I met him at my closet door.  “So, my dear love,” says he, “how do you?” folding his kind arms about me, and saluting me with ardour.  “Whenever I have been but a few hours from you, my impatience to see my beloved, will not permit me to stand upon the formality of a message to know how you are engaged; but I break in upon you, even in my riding-dress, as you see.”

“Dear Sir, you are very obliging.  But I have no notion of mere formalities of this kind”—­(How unpolite this, my dear, in your friend?)—­“in a married state, since ’tis impossible a virtuous wife can be employed about any thing that her husband may not know, and so need not fear surprises.”