whose sentiments he had so heartily concurred the whole way.
They were now about sixteen miles from London. The clergyman had wished from the first morning for an opportunity of being alone with Cynthia; but the hurries which attend travelling in a stage coach, with his own inexperience in all affairs of gallantry, and his great fear of offending, had prevented his gratifying that wish. And now that accident had thrown what he desired in his way, his great modesty, distrust of himself, and his esteem for Cynthia, rendered him almost incapable of speaking to her: he went on two or three miles in the greatest fright imaginable, for every step the horses took, he condemned himself for losing his time, and yet could not bring himself to make use of it. At last he fell into a discourse on love: all his sentiments were so delicate, and the thoughts he expressed so refined, that Cynthia not only agreed with him, but could not forbear showing, by her smiles and good-humour, that she was greatly pleased to meet with a person who had so much her own way of thinking. This encouraged the gentleman to speak; and, from talking of love in general, he began to be more particular: he begged pardon for being so abrupt, for which he alleged as an excuse the short time he had before he should lose sight of her for ever, unless she would be so good to inform him where she lived.
Cynthia was greatly surprised at this declaration, which she neither expected nor wished; the clergyman's behaviour, for the short time she had in a manner lived with him, had given her great reason to esteem him, and his conversation would have been a great pleasure to her on any terms but that of being her lover; but her heart was already so fixed that she resolved never to suffer any other man to make love to her; and she would on no
