“Besides, you, I think, or I am mistaken in you”—­he deviated from his projected speech—­“you are not a victim of the sense of association and the ludicrous.”

“I can understand the influence of it:  I have at least a conception of the humourous, but ridicule would not strike me in the Coliseum of Rome.  I could not bear it, no, Sir Willoughby!”

She appeared to be taking him in very strong earnest, by thus petitioning him not to laugh in the Coliseum, and now he said:  “Besides, you are one who could accommodate yourself to the society of the ladies, my aunts.  Good women, Laetitia!  I cannot imagine them de trop in Italy, or in a household.  I have of course reason to be partial in my judgement.”

“They are excellent and most amiable ladies; I love them,” said Laetitia, fervently; the more strongly excited to fervour by her enlightenment as to his drift.

She read it that he designed to take her to Italy with the ladies:  —­after giving Miss Middleton her liberty; that was necessarily implied.  And that was truly generous.  In his boyhood he had been famous for his bountifulness in scattering silver and gold.  Might he not have caused himself to be misperused in later life?

Clara had spoken to her of the visit and mission of the ladies to the library:  and Laetitia daringly conceived herself to be on the certain track of his meaning, she being able to enjoy their society as she supposed him to consider that Miss Middleton did not, and would not either abroad or at home.

Sir Willoughby asked her:  “You could travel with them?”

“Indeed I could!”

“Honestly?”

“As affirmatively as one may protest.  Delightedly.”

“Agreed.  It is an undertaking.”  He put his hand out.

“Whether I be of the party or not!  To Italy, Laetitia!  It would give me pleasure to be with you, and it will, if I must be excluded, to think of you in Italy.”

His hand was out.  She had to feign inattention or yield her own.  She had not the effrontery to pretend not to see, and she yielded it.  He pressed it, and whenever it shrunk a quarter inch to withdraw, he shook it up and down, as an instrument that had been lent him for due emphasis to his remarks.  And very emphatic an amorous orator can make it upon a captive lady.

“I am unable to speak decisively on that or any subject.  I am, I think you once quoted, ‘tossed like a weed on the ocean.’  Of myself I can speak:  I cannot speak for a second person.  I am infinitely harassed.  If I could cry, ‘To Italy tomorrow!’ Ah! . . .  Do not set me down for complaining.  I know the lot of man.  But, Laetitia, deceit! deceit!  It is a bad taste in the mouth.  It sickens us of humanity.  I compare it to an earthquake:  we lose all our reliance on the solidity of the world.  It is a betrayal not simply of the person; it is a betrayal of humankind.  My friend!  Constant friend!  No, I will not despair.  Yes, I have faults; I will remember them.  Only, forgiveness is another question.  Yes, the injury I can forgive; the falseness never.  In the interests of humanity, no.  So young, and such deceit!”