"No, my Lord," said I, with all the resolution I could assume; yet I was affected by an attention, at that time so little expected, and forced to turn away my head to conceal my emotion.
"You must," said he, with earnestness, "indeed you must,-I am sure you are not well;-refuse me not the honour of assisting you;" and, almost forcibly, he took my hand, and, drawing it under his arm, obliged me to lean upon him. That I submitted was partly the effect of surprise, at an earnestness so uncommon in Lord Orville, and, partly, that I did not just then dare trust my voice to make any objection.
When we came to the house, he led me into the parlour, and to a chair, and begged to know if I would not have a glass of water.
"No, my Lord, I thank you," said I, "I am perfectly recovered;" and, rising, I walked to the window, where, for some time, I pretended to be occupied in looking at the garden.
Determined as I was to act honourably by Mr. Macartney, I yet most anxiously wished to be restored to the good opinion of Lord Orville; but his silence, and the thoughtfulness of his air, discouraged me from speaking.
My situation soon grew disagreeable and embarrassing, and I resolved to return to my chamber till breakfast was ready. To remain longer I feared might seem asking for his enquiries; and I was sure it would ill become me to be more eager to speak, than he was to hear.
Just as I reached the door, turning to me hastily, he said, "Are you going, Miss Anville?"
"I am, my Lord," answered I; yet I stopped.
"Perhaps to return to-but I beg your pardon!" He spoke with a degree of agitation that made me readily comprehend he meant to the garden; and I instantly said, "To my own room, my Lord." And again I would have gone; but, convinced by my answer that I understood him, I believe he was sorry for the insinuation: he approached me with a very serious air, though at the same time he forced a smile, and said, "I know not what evil genius pursues me this morning, but I seem destined to do or to say something I ought not: I am so much ashamed of myself, that I can scarce solicit your forgiveness."
"My forgiveness! my Lord?" cried I, abashed, rather than elated by his condescension; "surely you cannot-you are not serious?"