“And you are shocked, no doubt, to find your precious virtue at fault. O, you little serpent that I have trusted and warmed in my bosom!”
“Diana!” she wept, in a very frenzy of despair. “O, what can I say or do? I thought it was you. It shall be you, Diana!”
“Yes, it shall be me,” I answered, “but no thanks to you. Don’t think that this is anything but a passing mood of his, played upon you for my delectation because I have been cold to him of late.”
“I think it is, I know it is,” she said, brightening.
“And you hope it is, I daresay,” I said scornfully.
“Yes, indeed,” she answered. “There is no love in the world but yours that I care for, Diana!”
“Love!” I exclaimed. “Don’t flatter this poor half-breeched makeshift with the sentiment.”
But I looked down on her more kindly, with a vexed laugh. My good-humour was returning to me. It seemed too comical, the way we three pious spinsters were scrambling for the favour of a sheep’s-eyes. A pair of small-clothes flung into our nunnery had been worse than an apple of discord. Skirts were so de rigueur with us, that I think even Gogo’s wooden legs seemed a little outrés.
“I do believe you were innocent, in everything but your cuddlesome looks,” I said, relenting.
“O yes, Diana!” she answered eagerly. “And I can’t help them.”