“I know, young man,” cried Sandford, interrupting him, “you are glad at what I have done, and that you find a gratification in telling me you are; but it is a gratification I will not indulge you with—therefore, say another sentence on the subject, and” (rising from his seat) “I’ll leave the room, and never come into your company again, whatever your uncle may say to it.” Rushbrook saw by the solemnity of his countenance, he was serious, and positively assured him he would never thank him more: on which Sandford took his seat again, but he still frowned, and it was many minutes before he conquered his ill humour. As his countenance became less sour, Rushbrook fell from some general topics he had eagerly started in order to appease him, and said, “How hard is it to restrain conversation from the subject of our thoughts; and yet amidst our dearest friends, and among persons who have the same dispositions and sentiments as our own, their minds, too, fixed upon the self-same objects, is this constraint practised—and thus, society, which was meant for one of our greatest blessings, becomes insipid, nay, often more wearisome than solitude.” “I think, young man,” replied Sandford, “you have made pretty free with your speech to-day, and ought not to complain of the want of toleration on that score.” “I do complain;” replied Rushbrook, “for if toleration was more frequent, the favour of obtaining it would be less.” “And your pride, I suppose, is above receiving a favour.” “Never from those I esteem; and to convince you of it, I wish this moment to request a favour of you.” “I dare say I shall refuse it. However what is it?” “Permit me to speak to you upon the subject of Lady Matilda?” Sandford made no answer, consequently did not forbid him—and he proceeded. “For her sake—as I suppose Lord Elmwood may have told you—I this morning rashly threw myself into the predicament from whence you released me—for her sake, I have suffered much—for her sake I have hazarded a great deal, and am still ready to hazard more.” “But for your own sake, do not,” returned Sandford, drily. “You may laugh at these sentiments as romantic, Mr. Sandford, but if they are, to me they are nevertheless natural.” “But of what service are they to be either to her, or to yourself?” “To me they are painful, and to her would be but impertinent, were she to know them.” “I shan’t inform her of them, so do not trouble yourself to caution me against it.” “I was not going—you know I was not—but I was going to say, that from no one so well as from you, could she be told my sentiments, without the danger of receiving offence.” “And what impression do you wish to give her, from her becoming acquainted with them?”