"Who says so?"
"Madame Beattie."
"I wish," said Jeff, "that old harpy would go to Elba or Siberia or the devil. I'm not going to run for office."
"What are you going to do?" asked Lydia, in a small voice. She was resting a hand on the table, and the hand trembled.
"It's a question of what I won't do, at present. I won't go down there to the hall and make an ass of myself talking history and be dished by that old marplot. But if I can get hold of the same men—having previously gagged Madame Beattie or deported her—I'll make them act some plays."
"What kind of plays?"
"Shakespeare, maybe."
"They can't do that. They don't know enough."
"They know enough to understand that old rascal's game, whatever it is, and hoot with her when she's done me. And she's given me the tip, with her dramatics up there on the platform, and the way they answered. They're children, and they want to play. She had the cleverness to see it. And they shall play with me."
"But they won't act Shakespeare," said Lydia. "They only care about their own countries. That's why they love Madame Beattie."