"Oh, Amor," said poor Phyllida, "they can't truly be intended for me!"
"For whom else?"
"But who would write such cruel words of a young woman?"
"That puppy, Lovely."
"Mr. Lovely! Oh! no, he's a gentleman and a man of family and a man of taste and a friend of Beau Ripple."
"He may be all this and more," declared Vernon, "but he wrote this book."
"I don't believe it."
"He did, I say, for he informed me so himself—at least he as good as informed me!"
"Amor! you must have been mistook."
"On my life, not at all. He owes me near five hundred guineas, and when I hinted that the expense of inland Spas tells upon a gentleman's resources, begged my pardon, swore he had a literary project on hand, and promised me a hundred guineas on Lady Day. That was the day before yesterday."