Sandford now laid his book down upon the table; but still holding his fingers in the pages he was reading, said, “And why are you disappointed of Miss Woodley’s company? When people expect what they have no right to hope, ’tis impertinent assurance to complain they are disappointed.” “I had a right to hope she would come,” answered Rushbrook, “for she promised she would.” “But what right had you to ask her?” “The right every one has, to make his time pass as agreeably as he can.” “But not at the expence of another.” “I believe, Mr. Sandford, it would be a heavy expence to you, to see me happy; I believe it would cost you even your own happiness.” “That is a price I have not now to give:” replied Sandford, and began reading again. “What, you have already paid it away? No wonder that at your time of life it should be gone. But what do you think of my having already squandered mine?” “I don’t think about you;” returned Sandford, without taking his eyes from the book. “Can you look me in the face and say that, Mr. Sandford? No, you cannot—for you know you _do_ think of me, and you know you hate me.”—Here he drank two glasses of wine one after another; “And I can tell you why you hate me,” continued he: “It is from a cause for which I often hate myself.” Sandford read on. “It is on Lady Matilda’s account you hate me, and use me thus.” Sandford put down the book hastily, and put both his hands by his side. “Yes,” resumed Rushbrook, “you think I am wronging her.” “I think you insult her,” exclaimed Sandford, “by this rude mention of her name; and I command you at your peril to desist.” “At my peril! Mr. Sandford? Do you assume the authority of my Lord Elmwood?” “I do on this occasion; and if you dare to give your tongue a freedom”—— Rushbrook interrupted him—“Why then I boldly say, (and as her friend you ought rather to applaud than resent it) I boldly say, that my heart suffers so much for her situation, that I am regardless of my own. I love her father—I loved her mother more—but I love _her_ beyond either.” “Hold your licentious tongue,” cried Sandford, “or quit the room.” “Licentious! Oh! the pure thoughts that dwell in her innocent mind, are not less sensual than mine towards her. Do you upbraid me with my respect, my pity for her? They are the sensations which impel me to speak thus undisguised, even to you, my open—no, even worse—my secret enemy!” “Insult _me_ as you please, Mr. Rushbrook,—but beware how you mention Lord Elmwood’s daughter.” “Can it be to her dishonour that I pity her? that I would quit the house this moment never to return, so that she supplied the place I with-hold from her.” “Go, then;” cried Sandford. “It would be of no use to her, or I would. But come, Mr. Sandford, I will dare do as much as you. Only second me, and I will entreat Lord Elmwood to be reconciled—to see and own her.”