On withdrawing to her dressing-room after dinner, Mrs. Wilson commenced
the disagreeable duty of removing the veil from the eyes of her niece, by
recounting to her the substance of Mrs. Fitzgerald's last communication.
To the innocence of Emily such persecution could excite no other
sensations than surprise and horror; and as her aunt omitted the part
concerning the daughter of Sir Edward Moseley, she naturally expressed her
wonder as to who the wretch could be.
"Possibly, aunt," she said with an involuntary shudder, "some of the many
gentlemen we have lately seen, and one who has had art enough to conceal
his real character from the world."
"Concealment, my love," replied Mrs. Wilson, "would be hardly necessary.
Such is the fashionable laxity of morals, that I doubt not many of
