Having said this, she felt as sure that Beatrice would overhear what was meant for her ears as if she had made an appointment with her cousin.
In the orchard was a bower, screened from the sun by honeysuckles, and Beatrice entered it a few minutes after Margaret had gone on her errand.
“But are you sure,” asked Ursula, who was one of Hero's attendants, “that Benedick loves Beatrice so devotedly?”
“So say the Prince and my betrothed,” replied Hero, “and they wished me to tell her, but I said, 'No! Let Benedick get over it.'”
“Why did you say that?”
“Because Beatrice is unbearably proud. Her eyes sparkle with disdain and scorn. She is too conceited to love. I should not like to see her making game of poor Benedick's love. I would rather see Benedick waste away like a covered fire.”
“I don't agree with you,” said Ursula. “I think your cousin is too clear-sighted not to see the merits of Benedick.” “He is the one man in Italy, except Claudio,” said Hero.
The talkers then left the orchard, and Beatrice, excited and tender, stepped out of the summer-house, saying to herself, “Poor dear Benedick, be true to me, and your love shall tame this wild heart of mine.”
We now return to the plan of hate.