“Well, my dear, write what you please; but I only hope you will not send your letter till the packet arrives.” “Pardon me, I shall send it as soon as I possibly can: the ‘dear delight of giving pain’ does not suit my taste.” Lady Delacour, as soon as she was left alone, began to reconsider the dowager’s story; notwithstanding her unbelieving smile, it alarmed her, for she could not refuse to give it some degree of credit, when she learnt that Mrs. Margaret Delacour was the authority from whom it came. Mrs. Delacour was a woman of scrupulous veracity, and rigid in her dislike to gossiping; so that it was scarcely probable a report originating with her, however it might be altered by the way, should prove to be totally void of foundation. The name of Virginia coincided with Sir Philip Baddely’s hints, and with Marriott’s discoveries: these circumstances considered, Lady Delacour knew not what opinion to form; and her eagerness to receive Mr. Hervey’s packet every moment increased. She walked up and down the room--looked at her watch--fancied that it had stopped--held it to her ear--ran the bell every quarter of an hour, to inquire whether the messenger was not _yet_ come back. At last, the long-expected packet arrived. She seized it, and hurried with it immediately to Belinda’s room. “Clarence Hervey’s packet, my love!--Now, woe be to the person who interrupts us!” She bolted the door as she spoke--. rolled an arm-chair to the fire--“Now for it!” said she, seating herself. “The devil upon two sticks, if he were looking down upon me from the house-top, or Champfort, who is the worse devil of the two, would, if he were peeping through the keyhole, swear I was going to open a love-letter--and so I hope I am. Now for it!” cried she, breaking the seal. “My dear friend,” said Belinda, laying her hand upon Lady Delacour’s, “before we open this packet, let me speak to you, whilst our minds are calm.” “Calm! It is the strangest time for your mind to be calm. But I must not affront you by my incredulity. Speak, then, but be quick, for I do not pretend to be calm; it not being, thank my stars, _‘mon métier d’être philosophe.’_ Crack goes the last seal--speak now, or for ever after hold your tongue, my _calm philosopher _of Oakly-park: but do you wish me to attend to what you are going to say?” “Yes,” replied Belinda, smiling; “that is the usual wish of those who speak.” “Very true: and I can listen tolerably well, when I don’t know what people are going to say; but when I know it all beforehand, I have an unfortunate habit of not being able to attend to one word. Now, my dear, let me anticipate your speech, and if my anticipation be wrong, then you shall rise to explain; and I will,” said she, (putting her finger on her lips,) “listen to you, like Harpocrates, without moving an eyelash.” Belinda, as the most certain way of being heard, consented to hear before she spoke.