My uncle was angry with him; so was my aunt:  Lucy was still more angry than they:  but I, standing up, said, Pray, my dear friends, take nothing amiss that Mr. Greville has said.—­He once told me, that he would set spies upon my conduct in town.  If, sir, your spies have been just, I fear nothing they can say.  But the hints you have thrown out, shew such a total want of all delicacy of mind, that you must not wonder if my heart rejects you.  Yet I am not angry:  I reproach you not:  Every one has his peculiar way.  All that is left me to say or to do, is to thank you for your favourable opinion of me, as I have thanked Mr. Fenwick; and to desire that you will allow me to look upon you as my neighbour, and only as my neighbour.

I courtesied to him, and withdrew.

But my great difficulty had been before with Mr. Orme.

His sister had desired that I would see her brother.  He and she were invited by my aunt to dinner on Tuesday.  They came.  Poor man!  He is not well!  I am sorry for it.  Poor Mr. Orme is not well!  He made me such honest compliments, as I may say:  his heart was too much in his civilities to raise them above the civilities that justice and truth might warrant in favour of a person highly esteemed.  Mine was filled with compassion for him; and that compassion would have shewn itself in tokens of tenderness, more than once, had I not restrained myself for his sake.  How you, my dear Lady G——­, can delight in giving pain to an honest heart, I cannot imagine.  I would make all God Almighty’s creatures happy, if I could; and so would your noble brother.  Is he not crossing dangerous seas, and ascending, through almost perpetual snows, those dreadful Alps which I have heard described with such terror, for the generous end of relieving distress?

I made Mr. Orme sit next me.  I was assiduous to help him, and to do him all the little offices which I thought would light up pleasure in his modest countenance; and he was quite another man.  It gave delight to his sister, and to all my friends, to see him smile, and look happy.

I think, my dear Lady G——­, that when Mr. Orme looks pleasant, and at ease, he resembles a little the good-natured Lord G——.  O that you would take half the pains to oblige him, that I do to relieve Mr. Orme!—­ Half the pains, did I say?  That you would not take pains to dis-oblige him; and he would be, of course, obliged.  Don’t be afraid, my dear, that, in such a world as this, things will not happen to make you uneasy without your studying for them.

Excuse my seriousness:  I am indeed too serious, at times.

But when Mr. Orme requested a few minutes’ audience of me, as he called it, and I walked with him into the cedar parlour, which you have heard me mention, and with which I hope you will be one day acquainted; he paid, poor man! for his too transient pleasure.  Why would he urge a denial that he could not but know I must give?