The Art of Asking Permission — Evelina, Or, the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World

Evelina writes the same day from a house of joy. Every face wears a smile, and a laugh is at everybody's service. A room leading to the garden is being fitted up for the Captain's study. Lady Howard does not sit a moment in one place. Maria is making caps. Orders are given, retracted, and given again. Nothing but hurry. Into that bustle the ladies have put a request, and Lady Howard insists that Evelina write it. She hopes Villars will not think her an encroacher. A petition implies a want. She asks whether he has left her one, and answers no.

She is half ashamed of beginning. The ladies are so pressing that she cannot resist wishing for the pleasures they offer, provided he does not disapprove. They are to make a very short stay. The Captain will meet them in a day or two. Mrs Mirvan and Maria both go. She says she is not very eager to accompany them, and that she shall be content to remain if he desires it. Assured of his goodness, ought she to form a wish that has not his sanction? She asks him to decide for her without fearing she will be uneasy. While she is in suspense she may hope. Once he has determined, she will not repine. They tell her London is in full splendour. Two playhouses are open, the Opera, Ranelagh, and the Pantheon. She has learned the names, and she asks him not to suppose she makes any point of going. She shall hardly sigh to see them leave without her, though she will probably never meet such another opportunity. Their domestic happiness will be so great that it is natural to wish to partake of it.

Then she breaks her own resolution. She had determined not to be urgent, but her pen, or rather her thoughts, will not let her keep it. She must acknowledge that she cannot help wishing for his permission. She almost repents the confession, and asks him to forget he has read it if the journey displeases him. She will not write any longer, because the more she thinks of it, the less indifferent she finds herself. She calls him father, and asks by what other name she can call him. She has no happiness or sorrow, no hope or fear, but what his kindness bestows or his displeasure may cause. He will not send a refusal without reasons unanswerable, and she will cheerfully acquiesce. She still hopes he will be able to permit her to go. She stops the letter there, still unable to sign the name Anville.