“I mean I will do something that no prudent man _ought_ to forgive; and yet, with all his vast share of prudence, _he_ shall forgive it, and make a sacrifice of just resentment to partial affection.” “But if you should be disappointed, and he should _not_ make the sacrifice?” said Miss Woodley. “Then I have only lost a man who had no regard for me.” “He may have a great regard for you, notwithstanding.” “But for the love I have felt, and do still feel, for my Lord Elmwood, I will have something more than a _great regard_ in return.” “You have his love, I am sure.” “But is it such as mine? _I_ could love _him_ if he had a thousand faults. And yet,” said she, recollecting herself, “and yet, I believe his being faultless, was the first cause of my passion.” Thus she talked on—sometimes in anger, sometimes apparently jesting—till her servant came to let her know the dinner was served. Upon entering the dining-room, and seeing Lord Elmwood’s place at table vacant, she started back. She was disappointed of the pleasure she expected in dining with him; and his sudden absence, so immediately after the intelligence that she had received from Miss Woodley, increased her uneasiness. She drew her chair, and sat down with an indifference, that said she should not eat; and as soon as she was seated, she put her fingers sullenly to her lips, nor touched her knife and fork, nor spoke a word in reply to any thing that was said to her during the whole dinner. Miss Woodley and Mrs. Horton were both too well acquainted with the good disposition of her heart, to take offence, or appear to notice this behaviour. They dined, and said nothing either to provoke or sooth her. Just as the dinner was going to be removed, a loud rap came at the door—“Who is that?” said Mrs. Horton. One of the servants went to the window, and answered, “My Lord and Mr. Sandford, Madam.” “Come back to dinner as I live,” cried Mrs. Horton. Miss Milner continued her position and said nothing—but at the corners of her mouth, which her fingers did not entirely cover, there were discoverable, a thousand dimpled graces like small convulsive fibres, which a restrained smile upon Lord Elmwood’s return, had sent there. Lord Elmwood and Sandford entered. “I am glad you are returned, my Lord,” said Mrs. Horton, “for Miss Milner would not eat a morsel.” “It was only because I had no appetite,” returned she, blushing like crimson. “We should not have come back,” said Sandford, “but at the place where we went to dine, all the rooms were filled with company.” Lord Elmwood put the wing of a fowl on Miss Milner’s plate, but without previously asking if she chose any; yet she condescended to eat—they spoke to each other too in the course of conversation, but it was with a reserve that appeared as if they had been quarrelling, and felt so to themselves, though no such circumstance had happened.