Yesterday morning I was sitting in my dressing-room, when Sir William, who had not been at home all night, entered it: He looked as if he had not been in bed; his hair disordered; and, upon the whole, as forlorn a figure as you ever beheld, I was going to say; but you can form very little idea of these rakes of fashion after a night spent as they usually spend it. To my inquiry after his health, he made a very slight or rather peevish answer; and flung himself into a chair, with both hands in his waistcoat pockets, and his eyes fixed on the fire, before which he had placed himself. As he seemed in an ill-humour, and I was unconscious of having given him cause, I was regardless of the consequences, and pursued my employment, which was looking over and settling some accounts relative to my own expences. He continued his posture in the strictest silence for near a quarter of an hour; a silence I did not feel within myself the least inclination to break through: at last he burst forth into this pretty soliloquy. "Damn it; sure there never was a more unfortunate dog than I am! Every thing goes against me. And then to be so situated too!" Unpromising as the opening sounded, I thought it would be better to bear a part in the conversation.--"If it is not impertinent, Sir William," said I, "may I beg to know what occasions the distress you seem to express? or at least inform me if it is in my power to be of service to you."--"No, no, you can be of no use to me--though," continued he, "you are in part the cause."--"I the cause!--for God's sake, how?" cried I, all astonishment. "Why, if your father had not taken advantage of my cursed infatuation for you, I should not have been distressed in pecuniary matters by making so large a settlement." "A cursed infatuation! do you call it? Sure, that is a harsh expression! Oh! how wretched would my poor father feel, could he imagine the affection which he fancied his unhappy daughter had inspired you with, would be stiled by yourself, and to _her_ face, _a cursed infatuation_!" Think you, Louisa, I was not pained to the soul? Too sure I was--I could not prevent tears from gushing forth. Sir William saw the effect his cruel speech had on me; he started from his seat, and took my hand in his. A little resentment, and a thousand other reasons, urged me to withdraw it from his touch.--"Give me your hand, Julia," cried he, drawing his chair close to mine, and looking at my averted face--"give me your hand, my dear, and pardon the rashness of my expressions; I did not mean to use such words;--I recall them, my love: it was ungenerous and false in me to arraign your father's conduct. I would have doubled and trebled the settlement, to have gained you; I would, by heavens! my Julia.--Do not run from me in disgust; come, come, you shall forgive me a thoughtless expression, uttered in haste, but seriously repented of."