He soon arrived with one; but just as she returned to the street door, a gentleman, who was hastily entering the house, standing back to let her pass, suddenly exclaimed, “Miss Beverley!” and looking at him, she perceived young Delvile. “I cannot stop an instant,” cried she, running down the steps, “lest the crowd should prevent the chair from going on.” “Will you not first,” said he, handing her in, “tell me what news you have heard?” “News?” repeated she. “No, I have heard none!” “You will only, then, laugh at me for those officious offers you did so well to reject?” “I know not what offers you mean!” “They were indeed superfluous, and therefore I wonder not you have forgotten them. Shall I tell the chairmen whither to go?” “To Mr Briggs. But I cannot imagine what you mean.” “To Mr Briggs!” repeated he, “O live for ever French beads and Bristol stones! fresh offers may perhaps be made there, impertinent, officious, and useless as mine!” He then told her servant the direction, and, making his bow, went into the house she had just quitted. Cecilia, extremely amazed by this short, but unintelligible conversation, would again have called upon him to explain his meaning, but found the crowd encreasing so fast that she could not venture to detain the chair, which with difficulty made its way to the adjoining streets: but her surprize at what had passed so entirely occupied her, that when she stopt at the house of Mr Briggs, she had almost forgotten what had brought her thither. The foot-boy, who came to the door, told her that his master was at home, but not well. She desired he might be acquainted that she wished to speak to him upon business, and would wait upon him again at any hour when he thought he should be able to see her. The boy returned with an answer that she might call again the next week. Cecilia, knowing that so long a delay would destroy all the kindness of her intention, determined to write to him for the money, and therefore went into the parlour, and desired to have pen and ink. The boy, after making her wait some time in a room without any fire, brought her a pen and a little ink in a broken tea-cup, saying “Master begs you won't spirt it about, for he's got no more; and all our blacking's as good as gone.” “Blacking?” repeated Cecilia. “Yes, Miss; when Master's shoes are blacked, we commonly gets a little drap of fresh ink.” Cecilia promised to be careful, but desired him to fetch her a sheet of paper. “Law, Miss,” cried the boy, with a grin, “I dare say master'd as soon give you a bit of his nose! howsever, I'll go ax.” In a few minutes he again returned, and brought in his hand a slate and a black lead pencil; “Miss,” cried he, “Master says how you may write upon this, for he supposes you've no great matters to say.”