“So? That’s settled, then. We must have you dressed to the part.”
“What part?” She affected, perhaps felt, a passing perturbation, but it served for no more than to add a thrill to her voice. And then, suddenly, her eyes brightened. “Have you got me a London engagement, George?” she said—“perhaps in the King’s theatre!”—and she clasped her hands rapturously.
“Why,” said he, “an engagement, true enough; but ’tis on the human stage.”
Her lip fell dolefully.
“O, curse that!”
“Mrs. Moll,” he said, “I shall be obliged if you will study to express your feelings less epigrammatically.”
“What’s that?” she said.
“Why, in your case, ’tis another word for cursing.”
“I only know of one other,” said she; “but I’ll damn it with all my heart, if that likes you better.”
“I like neither one nor t’other: ’tis to turn to ‘bitter-sweets’ those cherry-seeming lips of yours, and make poison of their nectar.”