“Because there may be friendship without familiarity—and so it is between him and you.” “That cannot be; for I have condescended to talk to him in the most familiar terms.” “To condescend, my Lord, is _not_ to be familiar.” “Then come, Sir, let us be on an equal footing through you. And now speak out _his_ thoughts freely, and hear mine in return.” “Why, then, he begs a respite for a year or two.” “On what pretence?” “To me, it was preference of a single life—but I suspect it is—what he imagines to be love—and for some object whom he thinks your Lordship would disapprove.” “He has not, then, actually confessed this to you?” “If he has, it was drawn from him by such means, that I am not warranted to say it in direct words.” “I have entered into no contract, no agreement on his account with the friends of the lady I have pointed out,” said Lord Elmwood; “nothing beyond implications have passed betwixt her family and myself at present; and if the person on whom he has fixed his affections, should not be in a situation absolutely contrary to my wishes, I may, perhaps, confirm his choice.” That moment Sandford’s courage prompted him to name Lady Matilda, but his discretion opposed—however, in the various changes of his countenance from the conflict, it was plain to discern that he wished to say more than he dared. On which Lord Elmwood cried, “Speak on, Sandford—what are you afraid of?” “Of you, my Lord.” He started. Sandford went on——“I know no tie—no bond—no innocence, that is a protection when you feel resentment.” “You are right,” he replied, significantly. “Then how, my Lord, can you encourage me to _speak on_, when that which I perhaps would say, might offend you to hear?” “To what, and whither are you changing our subject?” cried Lord Elmwood. “But, Sir, if you know my resentful and relentless temper, you surely know how to shun it.” “Not, and speak plainly.” “Then dissemble.” “No, I’ll not do that—but I’ll be silent.” “A new parade of submission. You are more tormenting to me than any one I have about me. Constantly on the verge of disobeying my commands, that you may recede, and gain my good will by your forbearance. But know, Mr. Sandford, that I will not suffer this much longer. If you chuse in every conversation we have together (though the most remote from such a subject) to think of my daughter, you must either banish your thoughts, or conceal them—nor by one sign, one item, remind me of her.” “Your daughter did you call her? Can you call yourself her father?” “I do, Sir—but I was likewise the husband of her mother. And, as that husband, I solemnly swear.”——He was proceeding with violence. “Oh! my Lord,” cried Sandford, interrupting him, with his hands clasped in the most fervent supplication—“Oh! do not let me draw upon her one oath more of your eternal displeasure—I’ll kneel to beg that you will drop the subject.”