“Marie,” said she to her cousin, on the Saturday evening, “I am in the greatest distress, pray help me, dearest. I am sure you know what ails me.”
“In distress, Agatha, and wanting help from me!—you that are wont to help all the world yourself! But I know, from your face, you are only half in earnest.”
“Indeed, and indeed, I never was much more so. I never was more truly in want of council. Can you not guess what my sorrow is?”
“Not unless it is, that you have a lover too much?—or perhaps you find the baker’s yeast runs short?”
“Ah, Marie, will you always joke when I am serious!”
“Well then, Agatha, now I am serious—is it that you have a lover too much?”
“Can any trouble be more grievous?”
“Oh, dear, yes! ten times worse. My case is ten times worse: and alas, alas! there is no cure for that.”
“Your case, Marie?”
“Yes, my case, Agatha—a lover too few!”