“Not since your return, sir,” saith Mrs Packworth mighty demurely, but with something of mystery in her air that I could not understand. “I must needs inquire his intention,” says I, scarce knowing what I said. “Sure, sir,” says Mrs Sternhold, “your best course were to inquire of Mrs Brandon herself. She would be little like to relish our making a common talk of her matters, but she could scarce refuse to grant you such satisfaction as you may desire touching ’em from her own lips.” “I must needs follow your counsel, madam,” says I. “Meanwhile, may I entreat of you and Mrs Packworth to dispense here with my further attendance? I see we are arrived at the path leading to the Hall through the woods, and I would fain hasten home.” Thus speaking, and making apologies that I understood not while I did utter ’em, I left the coach, standing uncovered until it was departed, and hearing the voices of the two gentlewomen in contention, as though Mrs Sternhold desired to tell me that which her daughter had refused me. I could not doubt but they were triumphing over me, but I cared not a whit for their triumph. Though they had done no more, they had at the least fulfilled their purpose, in showing me my own heart, and they had doubtless rejoiced to have beheld me hasten into the wood, and cast myself, in my anguish, on the ground. And this because Mrs Packworth’s discourse had revealed to me on a sudden that I had misread my resentiments, and that, so far from my heart’s being dead, it was alive, and loved Dorothy. And this seemed to me so ironical a stroke of fate that I groaned aloud, namely, that when she had been free and waiting for me I had rejected her, but that now, when her love was given to another, I was returned, and had learned to love her. Thus I could not deny that I was rightly served, and could blame no one but myself, that had behaved so foolishly both in the one case and in the other.