“Nor any house, I am certain, Mr. Sandford, but in which you are yourself the master.” “What do you mean, Madam? (and for the first time he elevated his voice,) am I the master here?” “Your servants,” replied she, looking at the company, “will not tell you so; but I do.” “You condescend, Mr. Sandford,” cried Mrs. Horton, “in talking so much to a young heedless woman; but I know you do it for her good.” “Well, Miss Milner,” cried Dorriforth, (and the most cutting thing he could say,) “since I find my proposal of the country has put you out of humour, I shall mention it no more.” With all that quantity of resentment, anger, or rage, which sometimes boiled in the veins of Miss Milner, she was yet never wanting in that respect towards her guardian, which with-held her from ever uttering one angry sentence, directed immediately to him; and a severe word of his, instead of exasperating, was sure to subdue her. This was the case at present—his words wounded her to the heart, but she had not the asperity to reply to them as she thought they merited, and she burst into tears. Dorriforth, instead of being concerned, as he usually was at seeing her uneasy, appeared on the present occasion provoked. He thought her weeping was a new reproach to his friend Mr. Sandford, and that to suffer himself to be moved by it, would be a tacit condemnation of his friend’s conduct. She understood his thoughts, and getting the better of her tears, apologised for her weakness; adding, “She could never bear with indifference an unjust accusation.” “To prove that mine was unjust, Madam,” replied Dorriforth; “be prepared to quit London, without any marks of regret, in a few days.” She bowed assent; the necessary preparations were agreed upon; and while with apparent satisfaction she adjusted the plan of her journey, (like those who behave well, not so much to please themselves as to vex their enemies,) she secretly triumphed in the mortification she hoped that Mr. Sandford would receive from her obedient behaviour. The news of this intended journey was of course soon made public. There is a secret charm in being pitied, when the misfortune is but ideal; and Miss Milner found infinite gratification in being told, “That her’s was a cruel case, and that it was unjust and barbarous to force so much beauty into concealment while London was filled with her admirers; who, like her, would languish in consequence of her solitude.” These things, and a thousand such, a thousand times repeated, she still listened to with pleasure; yet preserved the constancy not to shrink from her resolution of submitting.