“The promise you gave me then, you do not think of any consequence?” “Yes, certainly, if you do.” “I do.” “And mean, perhaps, to make it of more consequence than it deserves, by being offended.” “Whether or not, I _am_ offended—you shall find I am.” And he looked so. She caught his piercing eyes—hers were immediately cast down; and she trembled—either with shame or with resentment. Mrs. Horton rose from her seat—moved the decanters and fruit round the table—stirred the fire—and came back to her seat again, before another word was uttered. Nor had this good woman’s officious labours taken the least from the awkwardness of the silence, which, as soon as the bustle she had made was over, returned in its full force. At last, Miss Milner rising with alacrity, was preparing to go out of the room, when Dorriforth raised his voice, and in a tone of authority said, “Miss Milner, you shall not leave the house this evening.” “Sir!” she exclaimed with a kind of doubt of what she had heard—a surprise, which fixed her hand on the door she had half opened, but which now she shewed herself irresolute whether to open wide in defiance, or to shut submissively. Before she could resolve, he rose from his chair, and said, with a force and warmth she had never heard him use before, “I command you to stay at home this evening.” And he walked immediately out of the apartment by another door. Her hand fell motionless from that which she held—she appeared motionless herself—till Mrs. Horton, “Beseeching her not to be uneasy at the treatment she had received,” made her tears flow as if her heart was breaking. Miss Woodley would have said something to comfort her, but she had caught the infection, and could not utter a word. It was not from any real cause of grief that she wept; but there was a magnetic quality in tears, which always attracted hers. Mrs. Horton secretly enjoyed this scene, though the real well meaning of her heart, and ease of her conscience, did not suffer her to think so. She, however, declared she had “long prognosticated it would come to this;” and she “only thanked heaven it was no worse.” “What could be worse, Madam?” cried Miss Milner; “am not I disappointed of the ball?” “You don’t mean to go then?” said Mrs. Horton; “I commend your prudence; and I dare say it is more than your guardian gives you credit for.” “Do you think I would go,” answered Miss Milner, with an eagerness that for a time suppressed her tears, “in contradiction to his will?” “It is not the first time, I believe, you have acted contrary to that, Miss Milner,” replied Mrs. Horton, and affected a tenderness of voice, to soften the harshness of her words. “If you think so, Madam, I see nothing that should prevent me now.” And she flung out of the room as if she had resolved to disobey him. This alarmed poor Miss Woodley.