“I will tell you,” pursued Lady Delacour, “if not what you are going to say to me, at least what you say to yourself, which is fully as much to the purpose. You say to yourself, ‘Let this packet of Clarence Hervey contain what it may, it comes too late. Let him say, or let him do, ‘tis all the same to me--because--(now for the reasoning)--because things have gone so far with Mr. Vincent, that Lady Anne Percival and all the world (at Oakly-park) will blame me, if I retract. In short, _things have gone so far_ that I cannot recede; because--_things have gone so far_.’ This is the rondeau of your argument. Nay, hear me out, then you shall have your turn, my dear, for an hour, if you please. Let things have gone ever so far, they can stop, and turn about again, cannot they? Lady Anne Percival is your friend, of course can wish only for your happiness. You think she is ‘the thing that’s most uncommon, a reasonable woman:’ then she cannot be angry with you for being happy your own way. So I need not, as the orators say, _labour this point any more_. Now, as to your aunt. The fear of displeasing Mrs. Stanhope a little more or less is not to be put in competition with the hope of your happiness for life, especially as you have contrived to exist some months in a state of utter excommunication from her favour. After all, you know she will not grieve for any thing but the loss of Mr. Vincent’s fortune; and Mr. Hervey’s fortune might do as well, or almost as well: at least, she may compound with her pride for the difference, by considering that an English member of parliament is, in the eyes of the world (the only eyes with which she sees), a better connexion than the son of a West India planter, even though he may be a protégé of Lady Anne Percival.