So you really think, Edmund, your father will not be out after it is dark?

I have not known, my Lord, that he has for many years; rather than venture, I believe, he would stop the night at Oxford.  Very composedly he said this, for I watched his looks narrowly.—­

Edmund, confess, confess frankly, said I; has not this day been the longest you ever knew?

The longest I ever knew!  Faith your Lordship was never more out:  far from thinking so, I am startled to find how fast the hours have flown; and want the addition of at least three, to answer letters which my father’s business requires.

Business, Edmund! and does business really engross so much of your attention, when you know who is expected in the evening?  Ah! Edmund, you are a sly fellow:  never tell me, you want to lengthen out the tedious hours of absence.

Tedious hours of absence! Ho! ho! my Lord, I see now what you are at; your Lordship can never suppose me such a fool as to—­

Fool!—­My supposition, Edmund, pronounces you a man of sense; but you mistake my meaning.

I do not mistake, my Lord; surely it must be the height of folly to lift my thoughts to Miss Warley.  Suppose my father can give me a few thousands,—­are these sufficient to purchase beauty, good sense, with every accomplishment?—­No, no, my Lord, I am not such a vain fellow;—­Miss Warley was never born for Edmund Jenkings—­She told me so, the first moment I beheld her.

Told you so? what then, you have made pretensions to her, and she told you so?

Yes, my Lord, she told, me so.—­That is, her eyes, her whole graceful form, spoke it.—­Was I a man of family,—­a man of title, with a proper knowledge of the world,—­I would not deliberate a moment.

How comes it then, Edmund, that you are so assiduous to oblige her?—­You would not run and fly for every young lady.—­

True, my Lord, it is not every one would repay me with smiles of condescension.  Suffer me to assure your Lordship, when I can oblige Miss Warley, my ambition is gratified.—­Never, never shall a more presumptuous wish intrude to make me less worthy of the honour I receive from your Lordship’s notice.—­

This he spoke with energy;—­such energy,—­as if he had come at the book of my heart, and was reading its contents.  I knew his regard for my dear amiable girl, and the danger of betraying my secret, or should have treated him with unbounded confidence:—­I therefore only applauded his sentiments;—­told him a man who could think thus nobly,—­honour’d me in his friendship;—­that mine to him should be unalterable; call’d him brother; and by the joyful perturbations of my soul, I fear I gave him some idea of what I strove to hide.

The curtain of night was dropping by slow degrees, when a distant sound of wheels interrupted our conversation.—­We stood listening a moment, as it approach’d nearer.  Edmund cry’d out,—­They are come; I hear, Caesar’s voice; and, taking a hearty leave, ran home to receive them.—­I directed my course towards the Abbey, in hopes the chaise had proceeded thither, and found I had steer’d right, seeing it stand at the entrance.