And to have the same great creature leaning her head on his shoulder, and
listening with a charming complacency, while he purred to her of love and
calm delights, alternate with still greater triumphs; for he was to turn
dramatic writer, for her sake, was to write plays, a woman the hero, and
love was to inspire him, and passion supply the want of pencraft. (You
make me laugh, Mr. Vane!)
All this was heavenly.
And then with all her dash, and fire, and bravado, she was a thorough
woman.
"Margaret!"
"Ernest!"
"I want to ask you a question. Did you really cry because that Miss
Bellamy had dresses from Paris?"
"It does not seem very likely."
"No, but tell me; did you?"
"Who said I did?"
"Mr. Cibber."
"Old fool!"
"Yes, but did you?"
"Did I what?"
"Cry!"
"Ernest, the minx's dresses were beautiful."
"No doubt. But did you cry?"
"And mine were dirty; I don't care about gilt rags, but dirty dresses,
ugh!"
"Tell me, then."
"Tell you what?"
"Did you cry or not?"
"Ah! he wants to find out whether I am a fool, and despise me."
"No, I think I should love you better. For hitherto I have seen no
weakness in you, and it makes me uncomfortable."
"Be comforted! Is it not a weakness to like you!"
"You are free from that weakness, or you would gratify my curiosity."
"Be pleased to state, in plain, intelligible English, what you require of
me.
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