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good creatures—They—

      Meek! Sir Charles, repeated Sir Harry, with a half-angry smile, and shrugging, as if his shoulder had been hurt with his wife's meekness— say, meek!

      Now, Sir Charles Grandison, said my lady, with an air of threatening—

      I was desirous either of turning the lady's displeasure into a jest, or of diverting it from the first object, in order to make her play with it, till she had lost it.

      Women are of gentle natures, pursued I; and, being accustomed to be humoured, opposition sits not easy upon them. Are they not kind to us, Sir Harry, when they allow of our superiority, by expecting us to bear with their pretty perversenesses?

      O, Sir Charles Grandison! said my lady; both her hands lifted up.

      Let us be contented, proceeded I, with such their kind acknowledgments, and in pity to them, and in compliment to ourselves, bear with their foibles.—See, madam, I ever was an advocate for the ladies.

      Sir Charles, I have no patience with you—

      What can a poor woman do, continued I, when opposed? She can only be a little violent in words, and, when she has said as much as she chooses to say, be perhaps a little sullen. For my part, were I so happy as to call a woman mine, and she happened to be in the wrong, I would endeavour to be in the right, and trust to her good sense to recover her temper: arguments only beget arguments.—Those reconciliations are the most durable, in which the lady makes the advances.

      What doctrine is this, Sir Charles! You are not the man I took you for. —I believe, in my conscience, that you are not near so good a man, as the world reports you.

      What, madam, because I pretend to know a little of the sex? Surely, Lady Beauchamp, a man of common penetration may see to the bottom of a woman's heart. A cunning woman cannot hide it. A good woman will not. You are not, madam, such mysteries, as some of us think you. Whenever you know your own minds, we need not be long doubtful: that is all the difficulty: and I will vindicate you, as to that—

      As how, pray, sir?

      Women, madam, were designed to be dependent, as well as gentle, creatures; and, of consequence when left to their own wills, they know not what to resolve upon.

      I was hoping, Sir Charles, just now, that you would stay to dinner: but if you talk at this rate, I believe I shall be ready to wish you out of the house.

      Sir Harry looked as if he were half-willing to be diverted at what passed between his lady and me. It was better for me to say what he could not but subscribe to by his feeling, than for him to say it. Though reproof seldom amends a determined spirit, such a one as this lady's; yet a man who suffers by it cannot but have some joy when he hears his sentiments spoken by a bystander. This freedom of mine seemed to save the married pair a good deal of recrimination.

      You remind me, madam, that I must be gone, rising and looking at my watch.

      You must not leave us, Sir Charles, said Sir Harry.

      I beg excuse, Sir Harry—Yours, also, madam, smiling—Lady Beauchamp must not twice wish me out of the house.

      I will not excuse you, sir, replied she—If you have a desire to see the matter completed—She stopt—You must stay to dinner, be that as it will.

      'Be that as it will,' madam!—You shall not recede.

      Recede! I have not yet complied—

      O these women! They are so used to courtship, that they know not how to do right things without it—And, pardon me, madam, not always with it.

      Bold man—Have I consented—

      Have you not, madam, given a lady's consent? That we men expect not to be very explicit, very gracious.—It is from such non-negative consents, that we men make silence answer all we wish.

      I leave Sir Charles Grandison to manage this point, said Sir Harry. In my conscience, I think the common observation just: a stander-by sees more of the game, than he that plays.

      It ever will be so, Sir Harry—But I will tell you, my lady and I have as good as agreed the matter—

      I have agreed to nothing, Sir Harry—

      Hush, madam—I am doing you credit.—Lady Beauchamp speaks aside sometimes, Sir Harry: you are not to hear any thing she says, that you don't like.

      Then I am afraid I must stop my ears for eight hours out of twelve.

      That was aside, Lady Beauchamp—You are not to hear that.

      To sit, like a fool, and hear myself abused—A pretty figure I make! Sir Charles Grandison, let me tell you, that you are the first man that ever treated me like a fool.

      Excuse, madam, a little innocent raillery—I met you both, with a discomposure on your countenances. I was the occasion of it, by the letter I sent to Sir Harry. I will not leave you discomposed. I think you a woman of sense; and my request is of such a nature, that the granting of it will confirm to me, that you are so—But you have granted it—

      I have not.

      That's charmingly said—My lady will not undervalue the compliment she is inclined to make you, Sir Harry. The moment you ask for her compliance, she will not refuse to your affection, what she makes a difficulty to grant to the entreaty of an almost stranger.

      Let it, let it be so! Lady Beauchamp, said Sir Harry: and he clasped his arms about her as she sat—

      There never was such a man as this Sir Charles Grandison in the world!—

      It is a contrivance between you, Sir Harry—

      Dear Lady Beauchamp, resumed I, depreciate not your compliment to Sir Harry. There wanted not contrivance, I dare to hope, (if there did, it had it not,) to induce Lady Beauchamp to do a right, a kind, an obliging thing.

      Let me, my dearest Lady Beauchamp, said Sir Harry—Let me request—

      At your request, Sir Harry—But not at Sir Charles's.

      This is noble, said I. I thank you, madam, for the absent youth. Both husband and son will think themselves favoured by you; and the more, as I am sure, that you will by the cheerful welcome, which you will give the young man, shew, that it is a sincere compliment that you have made to Sir Harry.

      This man has a strange way of flattering one into acts of—of—what shall I call them?—But, Sir Harry, Mr. Beauchamp must not, I believe, live with us—

      Sir Harry hesitated.

      I was afraid of opening the wound. I have a request to make to you both, said I. It is this; that Mr. Beauchamp may be permitted to live with me; and attend you, madam, and his father, as a visitor, at your own command. My sister, I believe, will be very soon married to Lord G–.

      That is to be certainly so, interrupted the lady?

      It is, madam.

      But what shall we say, my dear, resumed Sir Harry—Don't fly out again— As to the provision for my son?—Two hundred a year—What is two hundred a year–

      Why then let it be three, answered she.

      I have a handsome and improvable estate, said I. I have no demands but those of reason upon me. I would not offer a plea for his coming to England, (and I am sure he would not have come, if I had,) without his father's consent: in which, madam, he hoped for yours. You shall not, sir, allow him either the two or three hundred a year. See him with love, with indulgence (he will deserve both;) and think not of any thing else for my Beauchamp.

      There is no bearing this, my dear, said Sir Harry; leaning upon his lady's shoulder, as he sat, tears in his eyes—My son is already, as I have heard, greatly obliged to this his true friend—Do you, do you, madam, answer for me, and for yourself.

      She was overcome: yet pride had its share with generosity. You are, said she, the Grandison I have heard of: but I will not be under obligations to you—not pecuniary ones, however. No, Sir Harry! Recall your son: I will trust to your love: do for him what you please: let him be independent on this insolent man; [She said this with a smile, that made it obliging;] and if we are to be visitors, friends,

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