‘In all my life I have never met with such an outrageous piece of impertinence!’ she exclaimed, tossing the paper to him. ‘How you have had the effrontery to show me such a thing passes my understanding! Take it, sir! Take it, and be obliging enough to leave me. You are never likely to “live to regret” your marriage with Miss Raeburn, for, while I have any influence with her, you will never have the chance of making it. You may tell Lady Fordyce, from me, that the fact that she is a member of your family is sufficient reason for my forbidding my niece to enter it!’ Crauford stood aghast, almost ready to clutch at his coat like a man in a gale of wind, and with scarcely wits left to tell him that he had given Lady Eliza the wrong letter. The oblique attacks he had occasionally suffered from his mother when vexed were quite unlike this direct onslaught. He went towards her, opening his mouth to speak. She waved him back. ‘Not a word, sir! not a word! I will ring the bell and order your horse to be brought.’ ‘Lady Eliza, I beg of you, I implore you, to hear what I have got to say!’ He was almost breathless. ‘I have heard enough. Do me the favour to go, Mr. Fordyce.’ ‘It is not my fault! I do assure you it is not my fault! I gave you the wrong letter, ma’am. I had never dreamed of your seeing that.’ ‘What do I care which letter it is? That such impertinence should have been written is enough for me. Cecilia “unable to support the dignity of being your wife”! Faugh!’ ‘If you would only read my father’s letter,’ exclaimed Crauford, drawing it out of his pocket, ‘you would see how very different it is. He is prepared to do everything--anything.’ ‘Then he may be prepared to find you a wife elsewhere,’ said Lady Eliza. At this moment Cecilia’s voice was heard in the passage. He took up his hat. ‘I will go,’ he said, foreseeing further disaster. ‘I entreat you, Lady Eliza, do not say anything to Miss Raeburn. I really do not know what I should do if she were to hear of this horrible mistake!’ He looked such a picture of dismay that, for a moment, she pitied him. ‘I should scarcely do such a thing,’ she replied. ‘You have not allowed me to express my deep regret--Lady Eliza, I hardly know what to say.’ ‘Say nothing, Mr. Fordyce. That, at least, is a safe course.’ ‘But what can I do? How can I induce you or Miss Raeburn to receive me? If she were to know of what has happened, I should have no hope of her ever listening to me! Oh, Lady Eliza--pray, pray tell me that this need not destroy everything!’ The storm of her anger was abating a little, and she began to realize that the unfortunate Crauford was deserving of some pity. And he was Robert’s nephew. ‘I know nothing of my niece’s feelings,’ she said, ‘but you may be assured that I shall not mention your name to her. And you may be assured of this also: until Lady Fordyce writes such a letter as I shall approve when you show it to me, you will never approach her with my consent.’