Almost wholly off his guard from the surprise and horror of this apprehension, he entered the room with such an air of haste and perturbation, that Mrs Charlton and her grand-daughters demanded what was the matter. “I am come,” he answered abruptly, yet endeavouring to recollect himself, “to speak with Miss Beverley upon business of some importance.” “My dear, then,” said Mrs Charlton, “you had better go with Mr Monckton into your dressing-room.” Cecilia, deeply blushing, arose and led the way; slowly, however, she proceeded, though urged by Mr Monckton to make speed. Certain of his disapprobation, and but doubtfully relieved from her own, she dreaded a conference which on his side, she foresaw, would be all exhortation and reproof, and on hers all timidity and shame. “Good God,” cried he, “Miss Beverley, what is this you have done? bound yourself to marry a man who despises, who scorns, who refuses to own you!” Shocked by this opening, she started, but could make no answer. “See you not,” he continued, “the indignity which is offered you? Does the loose, the flimsy veil with which it is covered, hide it from your understanding, or disguise it from your delicacy?” “I thought not,--I meant not,” said she, more and more confounded, “to submit to any indignity, though my pride, in an exigence so peculiar, may give way, for a while, to convenience.” “To convenience?” repeated he, “to contempt, to derision, to insolence!”-- “O Mr Monckton!” interrupted Cecilia, “make not use of such expressions! they are too cruel for me to hear, and if I thought they were just, would make me miserable for life!” “You are deceived, grossly deceived,” replied he, “if you doubt their truth for a moment; they are not, indeed, even decently concealed from you; they are glaring as the day, and wilful blindness can alone obscure them.” “I am sorry, Sir,” said Cecilia, whose confusion, at a charge so rough, began now to give way to anger, “if this is your opinion; and I am sorry, too, for the liberty I have taken in troubling you upon such a subject.” An apology so full of displeasure instantly taught Mr Monckton the error he was committing, and checking, therefore, the violence of those emotions to which his sudden and desperate disappointment gave rise, and which betrayed him into reproaches so unskilful, he endeavoured to recover his accustomed equanimity, and assuming an air of friendly openness, said, “Let me not offend you, my dear Miss Beverley, by a freedom which results merely from a solicitude to serve you, and which the length and intimacy of our acquaintance had, I hoped, long since authorised. I know not how to see you on the brink of destruction without speaking, yet, if you are averse to my sincerity, I will curb it, and have done.”