The next morning Lord Darcey introduc’d to us the son of Mr. Jenkings.—A finer youth I never saw!—Well might the old gentleman be suspicious.—Few fathers would, like him, have sacrificed the interest of a son, to preserve that of a friend.—To know the real rank of Miss Powis;—her ten thousand virtues;—her great expectations; yet act with so much caution!—with an anxiety which the most sordid miser watching his treasure, could not have exceeded! and for what?—Why lest involuntarily she might enrich his belov’d son with her affections.—Will you part with me to this extraordinary man?—Only for an hour or two.—A walk is propos’d.—Our ramble will not be farther than his house.—You say I may go. Thank you, Madam: I am gone.
Just return’d from the steward’s, so cramm’d with sweet-meats, cake, and jellies, that I am absolutely stupified.
I must tell you who led Miss Powis.—Lord Darcey, to be sure.—No, Madam; I had the favour of his Lordship’s arm:—it was Edmund.—I call him Edmund;—every body calls him Edmund;—yes, and at Lord Darcey’s request too.—Never shall I forget in what a graceful manner!—But his Lordship does every thing with grace.—He mention’d something of past times, hinting he should not always have courted him to such honour, presenting the hand of his belov’d.
I wish I could send you her look at that moment; it was all love,—all condescension.—I say I cannot send it.—Mortifying! I cannot even borrow it.
Adieu, dear Madam!—Adieu, dear Sir!—Adieu, you best of parents—It is impossible to say which is most dear to your ever dutiful and affectionate
Miss DELVES to the same.
Lost my heart again!—Be not surpriz’d, Madam; I lose and find it ten times a day;—yet it never strays from Barford Abbey.—The last account you had from me it was button’d inside Mr. Morgan’s hunting-frock:—since that, it has been God knows with whom:—sometimes wrapt in a red coat;—sometimes in a blue;—sometimes in a green:—but finding many competitors flew to black, where it now lies snug, warm, and easy.—Restless creature! I will never take it home again.
What think you, Madam, of a Dean for a son-in-law?
What do I think? you say.—Why the gentlemen of the church have too much sense and gravity to take my madcap off my hands.—Well, Madam, but suppose the Dean of H—— now you look pleas’d.—Oh, the Dean of H——! What the Dean, Bessy, that Lady Mary used to talk of:—the Dean that married Mr. and Mrs. Powis.
As sure as I live, Madam, the very man:—and to-morrow,—to-morrow at ten, he is to unite their lovely daughter with Lord Darcey.—Am I not very good,—extremely good, indeed, to sit down and write,—when every person below is solacing themselves on the approach of this happy festival?