“You may hang your head, to make yourself the more attractive; I don’t know what they see in you when you hold it up,” thought Mrs. Sparsit; “but you little think, my dearest love, whose eyes are on you!”

That she hung her head, was certain. She urged him to go away, she commanded him to go away; but she neither turned her face to him, nor raised it. Yet it was remarkable that she sat as still as ever the amiable woman in ambuscade had seen her sit, at any period in her life. Her hands rested in one another, like the hands of a statue; and even her manner of speaking was not hurried.

“My dear child,” said Harthouse; Mrs. Sparsit saw with delight that his arm embraced her; “will you not bear with my society for a little while?”

“Not here.”