Emilie, who saw that even before she spoke Mrs. Somers was on the brink of anger, trembled at the idea of confessing the truth--that her heart was already biassed in favour of another: she had, however, the courage to explain to her all that passed in her mind. Mrs. Somers heard her with inexpressible disappointment. She was silent for some minutes. At last she said, in a voice of constrained passion, “Mlle. de Coulanges, I have only one question to ask of you--you will reflect before you answer it, because on your reply depends the continuance or utter dissolution of our friendship--do you, or do you not, think proper to refuse my son before you have seen him?” “Before I have seen Mr. Somers, it surely can be no affront to you or to him,” said Emilie, “to decline an offer that I cannot accept, especially when I give as my reason, that my mind is prepossessed in favour of another. With that prepossession, I cannot unite myself to your son: I can only express to you my gratitude--my most sincere gratitude--for your kind and generous intentions, and my hopes that he will find, amongst his own countrywomen, one more suited to him than I can be. His fortune is far above--” “Say no more, I beg, Mlle. de Coulanges--I asked only for a simple answer to a plain question. You refuse my son--you refuse to be my daughter. I am satisfied--perfectly satisfied. I suppose you have arranged to go to Lady Littleton’s. I heartily hope that she may be able to make her house more agreeable to you than I could render mine. Shake hands, Mlle. de Coulanges. You have my best wishes for your health and happiness--Here we part.” “Oh! do not let us part in anger!” said Emilie. “In anger!--not in the least--I never was cooler in my life. You have completely cooled me--you have shown me the folly of that warmth of friendship which can meet with no return.” “Would it be a suitable return for your warm friendship to deceive your son?” said Emilie. “To deceive me, I think still less suitable!” cried Mrs. Somers. “And how have I deceived you?” “You know best. Why was I kept in ignorance till the last moment? Why did you never confide your thoughts to me, Emilie? Why did you never till now say one word to me of this strange attachment?” “There was no necessity for speaking till now,” said Emilie. “It is a subject I never named to any one except to mamma--a subject on which I did not think it right to speak to any one but to a parent.” “Your notions of right and wrong, ma’am, differ widely from mine--we are not fit to live together. I have no idea of a friend’s concealing any thing from me: without entire confidence, there is no friendship--at least no friendship with me. Pray no tears. I am not fond of _scenes_. Nobody ever is that feels much.--Adieu!--Adieu!” Mrs. Somers hurried out of the room, repeating, “I’ll write directly--this instant--to Lady Littleton. Mad. de Coulanges shall not be kept prisoner in _my_ house.” Emilie stood motionless.