Her faith was plighted, and Mr. Elliot's character, like the Sultaness Scheherazade's head, must live another day.

She had only to submit, sit down, be outwardly composed, and feel herself plunged at once in all the agitations which she had merely laid her account of tasting a little before the morning closed. There was no delay, no waste of time. She was deep in the happiness of such misery, or the misery of such happiness, instantly.