Henrietta, stranger to all forms of politeness, though by nature soft, obliging and delicate, opened it immediately; she started as she cast her eye over it, but blushed, sparkled, and looked enchanted, and hastily rising, without even a thought of any apology, ran out of the room to answer it. Cecilia, whose quick eye, by a glance unavoidable, had seen the hand of Delvile, was filled with new amazement at the sight. As soon as the servants were gone, she begged Mrs Harrel to excuse her, and went to her own apartment. Here, in a few minutes, she was followed by Henrietta, whose countenance beamed with pleasure, and whose voice spoke tumultuous delight. “My dear, dear Miss Beverley!” she cried, “I have such a thing to tell you!--you would never guess it,--I don't know how to believe it myself,--but Mr Delvile has written to me!--he has indeed! that note was from him.--I have been locking it up, for fear of accidents, but I'll run and fetch it, that you may see it yourself.” She then ran away; leaving Cecilia much perplexed, much uneasy for herself, and both grieved and alarmed for the too tender, too susceptible Henrietta, who was thus easily the sport of every airy and credulous hope. “If I did not shew it you,” cried Henrietta, running back in a moment, “you would never think it possible, for it is to make such a request--that it has frightened me almost out of my wits!” Cecilia then read the note. _To Miss Belfield_. Mr Delvile presents his compliments to Miss Belfield, and begs to be permitted to wait upon her for a few minutes, at any time in the afternoon she will be so good as to appoint. “Only think,” cried the rapturous Henrietta, “it was _me_, poor simple _me_, of all people, that he wanted so to speak with!--I am sure I thought a different thought when he went away! but do, dearest Miss Beverley, tell me this one thing, what do you think he can have to say to me?” “Indeed,” replied Cecilia, extremely embarrassed, “it is impossible for me to conjecture.” “If _you_ can't, I am sure, then, it is no wonder _I_ can't! and I have been thinking of a million of things in a minute. It can't be about any business, because I know nothing in the world of any business; and it can't be about my brother, because he would go to our house in town about him, and there he would see him himself; and it can't be about my dear Miss Beverley, because then he would have written the note to her and it can't be about any body else, because I know nobody else of his acquaintance.” Thus went on the sanguine Henrietta, settling whom and what it could _not_ be about, till she left but the one thing to which her wishes pointed that it _could_ be about. Cecilia heard her with true compassion, certain that she was deceiving herself with imaginations the most pernicious; yet unable to know how to quell them, while in such doubt and darkness herself.