your fortune to any _sprig of quality?_"

"Never! my dearest madam! never," cried Mr. Palmer, laughing. "Never was
such a gander. See what oaths people put into one's mouth."

"And what lies the world tells," said Mrs. Beaumont.

"And believes," said Mr. Palmer, with a sly smile.

The surprise that Mrs. Beaumont felt was mixed with a strange and rapid
confusion of other sentiments, regret for having wasted such a quantity
of contrivance and manoeuvring against an imaginary difficulty. All this
arose from her too easy belief of _secret underhand information_.

Through the maze of artifice in which she had involved affairs, she
now, with some difficulty, perceived that plain truth would have served
her purpose better. But regret for the past was not in the least mixed
with any thing like remorse or penitence; on the contrary, she
instantly began to consider how she could best profit by her own wrong.
She thought she saw two of her favourite objects almost within her
reach, Mr. Palmer's fortune, and the future title for her daughter: no
obstacle seemed likely to oppose the accomplishment of her wishes,
except Amelia's own inclinations: these she thought she could readily
prevail upon her to give up; for she knew that her daughter was both of
a timid and of an affectionate temper; that she had never in any
instance withstood, or even disputed, her maternal authority; and that
dread of her displeasure had often proved sufficient to make Amelia
suppress or sacrifice her own feelings. Combining all these reflections
with her wonted rapidity, Mrs. Beaumont determined what her play should
now be. She saw, or thought she saw, that she ought, either by gentle