they left their fellow travellers, and retired to their separate rooms.
The atheist had been forming a scheme in his mind, from the time he first saw Cynthia, in what manner he should address her; for, as he had persuaded himself there was no such thing as any one virtue in the world, he was under no apprehension of being disappointed in his hopes. Cynthia's contempt of the butterfly was a convincing proof to him of her understanding, and consequently encouraged him to believe that she must be pleased with himself. The only difficulty that he feared he should meet with was the finding an opportunity of speaking to her alone; but while he was perplexing his brains how he should accomplish his designs, accident threw that in his way which he knew not how to bring about for himself.
It was a fine moonlight night; and, as the various things labouring in Cynthia's mind inclined her to be pensive and melancholy, when she fancied the two gentlemen were safe at their bottle for that evening, she went down a pair of back stairs into a little garden belonging to the house, in which was an arbour. Here she sat down, wandering in her own fancy through all the past scenes of her life. The usage she had met with from almost all her acquaintance, and their different behaviour, according to her different circumstances, gave her but an uneasy sensation; but by giving way to the bent of her mind, at length all unpleasing thoughts were exhausted, and her imagination began to indulge her with more agreeable ideas. But, as if it had been impossible for her to enjoy one moment's pleasure, no sooner had her thoughts taken this turn, than she saw the atheist, who, softly and unperceived by her (so fixed was she in her templations), was come near enough to sit down her. He had drank his companion to sleep;
