deeper impression upon his imagination, than the scene of fury and
death, which had occasioned that terror: and Cecilia, who now strained
every nerve to repair by her firmness, the pain which by her weakness
she had given him, was sooner in a condition for reasoning and
deliberation than himself.

"Ah Delvile!" she cried, comprehending what passed within him, "do you
allow nothing for surprize? and nothing for the hard conflict of
endeavouring to suppress it? do you think me still as unfit to advise
with, and as worthless, as feeble a counsellor, as during the first
confusion of my mind?"

"Hurry not your tender spirits, I beseech you," cried he, "we have time
enough; we will talk about business by and by."

"What time?" cried she, "what is it now o'clock?"

"Good Heaven!" cried he, looking at his watch, "already past ten! you
must turn me out, my Cecilia, or calumny will still be busy, even
though poor Monckton is quiet."

"I _will_ turn you out," cried she, "I am indeed most earnest to have
you gone. But tell me your plan, and which way you mean to go?"

"That;" he answered, "you shall decide for me yourself: whether to
Delvile Castle, to finish one tale, and wholly communicate another, or
to Margate, to hasten my mother abroad, before the news of this
calamity reaches her."

"Go to Margate," cried she, eagerly, "set off this very moment! you can