"You are mistaken," replied the metaphysician, calmly; "because I must speak truth."
"Why must you, pray?" said the baronet.
"Because," answered Trollolop, taking snuff, "there is a principle of veracity implanted in our nature."
"I wish I were a metaphysician," said Clarence, with a sigh.
"I am glad to hear you say so; for you know, my dear Linden," said Callythorpe, "that I am your true friend, and I must therefore tell you that you are shamefully ignorant. You are not offended?"
"Not at all!" said Clarence, trying to smile.
"And you, my dear Findlater" (turning to the baronet), "you know that
I wish you well; you know that I never flatter; I'm your real friend,
so you must not be angry; but you really are not considered a
Solomon."
"Mr. Callythorpe!" exclaimed the baronet in a rage (the best-hearted people can't always bear truth), "what do you mean?"
"You must not be angry, my good sir; you must not, really. I can't help telling you of your faults; for I am a true Briton, sir, a true Briton, and leave lying to slaves and Frenchmen."
"You are in an error," said Trollolop; "Frenchmen don't lie, at least not naturally, for in the human mind, as I before said, the Divine Author has implanted a principle of veracity which—"