I have been resting from the fatigues of London, while you have been
wearing yourself out."

"Dr. James himself told me your condition was serious," I said.

"Of course," said she; "the worse the disease, the more remarkable the
cure, the more sought after the physician. When will you get over your
provincial simplicity?"

I saw there was nothing to be got out of her while in this baffling
humour. I wondered what devil impelled a woman to write one way and talk
another. In her note to me she had confessed her illness. The words I
had formed to say to her were tied on my tongue. But on the whole I
congratulated myself. She knew how to step better than I, and there were
many awkward things between us of late best not spoken of. But she kept
me standing an unconscionable time without a word, which on the whole was
cruelty, while she played over some of Dibdin's ballads.

"Are you in a hurry, sir," she asked at length, turning on me with a
smile, "are you in a hurry to join my Lord March or his Grace of Grafton?
And have you writ Captain Clapsaddle and your Whig friends at home of
your new intimacies, of Mr. Fox and my Lord Sandwich?"

I was dumb.

"Yes, you must be wishing to get away," she continued cruelly, picking up
the newspaper. "I had forgotten this notice. When I saw it this morning
I thought of you, and despaired of a glimpse of you to-day." (Reading.)
"At the Three Hats, Islington, this day, the 10th of May, will be played
a grand match at that ancient and much renowned manly diversion called