“‘You are lying,’ retorted Plucritus, abruptly. ‘You know more about him than you will confess.’
“‘I know nothing more than you yourself.’
“But dear me!” she broke off suddenly, “there I am wandering away from my subject, and talking about muddling identities, instead of proceeding with my own advice. What was I saying? That you had forgotten the moral of your story. But you have given the book to me, and I shall preserve the moral at any cost; and at the same time I shall remember my duty towards my neighbour and compose an eleventh commandment to suit my own requirements.”
“And what will that be?”
“Well, it will run something after this line: ‘Thou shalt not step upon thy neighbour’s boots, nor his toes, nor his corns. Thou shalt not take to thyself thy neighbour’s likeness, nor his voice, nor his mannerisms, nor anything that is his. Thou shalt not take the words any more than the bread out of thy neighbour’s mouth.’”
“Thank you,” said I, “that will do. Your eleventh commandment seems rather comprehensive and one long hit against me.”
“I’m glad you see it at last,” she went on. “You were trying to pluck the mote out of your brother’s eye without perceiving the beam in your own.”
“Well, it’s a common enough failing. But what about your advice? Am I still to maintain that I was in the right?”
She put her head very gravely on one side.
“Well, no. You must never stick to a hard-and-fast line. If I were you I should go to my brother and I should say, ‘Look here. The beam has clean gone out of my eye, let me proceed to gently eradicate the mote from yours.’”