anger, "your informants, Pamela."

"Dear Sir, so you shall, in proper time: you shall know all, when I am
convinced, that your wrath will not be attended with bad consequences
to yourself and others. That is wholly the cause of my reserve in this
point; for I have not had a thought, since I have been yours, that I
wished to be concealed from you.--But your knowledge of the informants
makes nothing at all as to the truth of the information--Nor will I
press you too home. I doubt not, you are soon to return to Tunbridge?"

"I _am_, and what then?--Must the consequence be crime enough to
warrant your jealousy?"

"Dear Sir, don't be so angry," still looking down; for I durst not
trust myself to look up. "I don't do this, as your letter charged me,
in a spirit of matrimonial recrimination: if you don't _tell_ me, that
you see the Countess with pleasure, I _ask_ it not of you; nor have I
anything to say by way of upbraiding. 'Tis my misfortune, that she is
too lovely, and too attractive: and it is the less wonder, that a fine
young gentleman as you are, and a fine young lady as she is, should
engage one another's affections.

"I knew every thing, except what this letter which you shall read
presently, communicates, when you brought the two noble sisters to
visit me: hence proceeded my grief; and should I, Sir, have deserved
to be what I am, if I was _not_ grieved? Religion has helped me, and
God has answered my supplications, and enabled me to act this new
uncommon part before you at this imaginary bar. You shall see, Sir,
that as, on one hand, I want not, as I said before, to move your
passions in my favour; so, on the other, I shall not be terrified by
your displeasure, dreaded by me as it used to be, and as it will be
again, the moment that my raised spirits sink down to their usual
level, or are diverted from this my long meditated purpose, to tell
you all my mind.

"I repeat, then, Sir, that I knew all this, when the two noble sisters
came to visit your poor girl, and to see your Billy. Yet, _grave_ as
the Countess called me, (dear Sir! might I not well be grave, knowing
what I knew?) did I betray any impatience of speech or action, or any
discomposure?

"No, Sir," putting my hand on my breast, "_here_ all my discomposure
lay, vehemently struggling, now and then, and wanting that vent of my
eyes, which it seems (overcome by my joy, to hear myself favourably
spoken of by you and the lady,) it _too soon_ made itsel