She then desired me to pack up my clothes; and said she must go herself to make speeches and tell lies to Mrs. Beaumont.
When I went down stairs to dinner, Lord Orville, who was still in excellent spirits, reproached me for secluding myself so much from the company. He sat next me,-he would sit next me,-at table; and he might, I am sure, repeat what he once said of me before, that he almost exhausted himself in fruitless endeavours to entertain me; -for, indeed, I was not to be entertained: I was totally spiritless and dejected; the idea of the approaching meeting,-and Oh, Sir, the idea of the approaching parting,-gave a heaviness to my heart that I could neither conquer nor repress. I even regretted the half explanation that had passed, and wished Lord Orville had supported his own reserve, and suffered me to support mine.
However, when, during dinner, Mrs. Beaumont spoke of our journey, my gravity was no longer singular; a cloud instantly overspread the countenance of Lord Orville, and he became nearly as thoughtful and as silent as myself.
We all went together to the drawing-room. After a short and unentertaining conversation, Mrs. Selwyn said she must prepare for her journey, and begged me to see for some books she had left in the parlour.
And here, while I was looking for them, I was followed by Lord Orville. He shut the door after he came in, and, approaching me with a look of anxiety, said, "Is this true, Miss Anville, are you going?"
"I believe so, my Lord," said I, still looking for the books.
"So suddenly, so unexpectedly must I lose you?"
"No great loss, my Lord," cried I, endeavouring to speak cheerfully.
"Is it possible," said he gravely, "Miss Anville can doubt my sincerity?"
"I can't imagine," cried I, "what Mrs. Selwyn has done with these books."
"Would to Heaven," continued he, "I might flatter myself you would allow me to prove it!"
"I must run up stairs," cried I, greatly confused, "and ask what she has done with them."
"You are going, then," cried he, taking my hand, "and you give me not the smallest hope of your return!-will you not, then, my too lovely friend!-will you not, at least, teach me, with fortitude like your own, to support your absence?"
"My Lord," cried I, endeavouring to disengage my hand, "pray let me go!"