“We—we were only cooling ourselves,” stammered Bumble, looking apprehensively about him.
“Cooling yourselves!” retorted Monks. “Not all the rain that ever fell, or ever will fall, will put as much of hell’s fire out, as a man can carry about with him. You won’t cool yourself so easily; don’t think it!”
With this agreeable speech, Monks turned short upon the matron, and bent his gaze upon her, till even she, who was not easily cowed, was fain to withdraw her eyes, and turn them towards the ground.
“This is the woman, is it?” demanded Monks.
“Hem! That is the woman,” replied Mr. Bumble, mindful of his wife’s caution.
“You think women never can keep secrets, I suppose?” said the matron, interposing, and returning, as she spoke, the searching look of Monks.
“I know they will always keep one till it’s found out,” said Monks.
“And what may that be?” asked the matron.
“The loss of their own good name,” replied Monks. “So, by the same rule, if a woman’s a party to a secret that might hang or transport her, I’m not afraid of her telling it to anybody; not I! Do you understand, mistress?”
“No,” rejoined the matron, slightly colouring as she spoke.