"No doubt. All my marriages are off. I don't mean to be married at all. I tell you I'm going home to keep house for my father."
"Keep house for me," said Mr. Moss.
"I would rather keep house for the devil," said Rachel, rising from her chair in wrath.
"Vy?—vy?"—Mr. Moss was reduced by his eagerness and enthusiasm to his primitive mode of speaking—"Vat is it that you shall want of a man but that he shall love you truly? I come here ready to marry you, and to take my chance in all things. You say your voice is gone. I am here ready to take the risk. Lord Castlewell will not have you, but I will take you." Now he had risen from his chair, and was standing close to her; but she was so surprised at his manner and at his words that she did not answer him at all. "That lord cared for you not at all, but I care. That Mr. Jones, who was to have been your husband, he is gone; but I am not gone. Mr. Jones!" then he threw into his voice a tone of insufferable contempt.
This Rachel could not stand.
"You shall not talk to me about Mr. Jones."
"I talk to you as a man who means vat he is saying. I will marry you to-morrow."
"I would sooner throw myself into that river," she said, pointing down to the Thames.
"You have nothing, if I understand right,—nothing! You have had a run for a few months, and have spent all your money. I have got £10,000! You have lost your voice,—I have got mine. You have no theatre,—I have one of my own. I am ready to take a house and furnish it just as you please. You are living here in these poor, wretched lodgings. Why do I do that?" And he put up both his hands.
"You never will do it," said Rachel.