This conversation was soon interrupted, by a message that a gentleman in the parlour begged to speak with Miss Belfield. “O dearest, dearest Miss Beverley!” cried Henrietta, with encreasing agitation, “what in the world shall I say to him, advise me, pray advise me, for I can't think of a single word!” “Impossible, my dear Henrietta, unless I knew what he would say to you!” “O but I can guess, I can guess!”--cried she, her cheeks glowing, while her whole frame shook, “and I sha'n't know what in the whole world to answer him! I know I shall behave like a fool,--I know I shall disgrace myself sadly!” Cecilia, truly sorry Delvile should see her in such emotion, endeavoured earnestly to compose her, though never less tranquil herself. But she could not succeed, and she went down stairs with expectations of happiness almost too potent for her reason. Not such were those of Cecilia; a dread of some new conflict took possession of her mind, that mind so long tortured with struggles, so lately restored to serenity! Henrietta soon returned, but not the same Henrietta she went;--the glow, the hope, the flutter were all over; she looked pale and wan, but attempting, as she entered the room, to call up a smile, she failed, and burst into tears. Cecilia threw her arms round her neck, and tried to console her; but, happy to hide her face in her bosom, she only gave the freer indulgence to her grief, and rather melted than comforted by her tenderness, sobbed aloud. Cecilia too easily conjectured the disappointment she had met, to pain her by asking it; she forbore even to gratify her own curiosity by questions that could not but lead to her mortification, and suffering her therefore to take her own time for what she had to communicate, she hung over her in silence with the most patient pity. Henrietta was very sensible of this kindness, though she knew not half its merit: but it was a long time before she could articulate, for sobbing, that _all_ Mr Delvile wanted, at last, was only to beg she would acquaint Miss Beverley, that he had done himself the honour of waiting upon her with a message from Mrs Delvile. “From Mrs Delvile?” exclaimed Cecilia, all emotion in her turn, “good heaven! how much, then, have I been to blame? where is he now?--where can I send to him?--tell me, my sweet Henrietta, this instant!” “Oh madam!” cried Henrietta, bursting into a fresh flood of tears, “how foolish have I been to open my silly heart to you!--he is come to pay his addresses to you!--I am sure he is!--” “No, no, no!” cried Cecilia, “indeed he is not!--but I must, I ought to see him,--where, my love, is he?”, “In the parlour,--waiting for an answer.--”