"I think my father—Squire Passmore, I mean"—Celia explained, a little sadly, "told her so much at our first meeting."
"So much the better. And you expected to find me a red-hot Jacobite, did you? To tell the truth, I don't care two pins about it; neither does my mother, only 'tis the mode here, and she has taken it up along with her face-washes, laces, and lutestring. Of course I would not call the King anything but 'Your Majesty' to his face—it would hurt his feelings, poor gentleman, and I don't see that it would do any good. But if you ask me whether I would risk the confiscation of my property (when I have any) in aiding a second Restoration,—why, not I."
"Do you consider yourself an Englishman or a Frenchman, Philip?"
"Well, upon my word, Mrs. Celia Ingram, you are complimentary! 'Do I consider myself an Englishman or a Frenchman!' I am an Englishman, Madam, and proud of it; and I will thank you not to insult me by asking me whether I consider myself a Frenchman!"
"I beg your pardon, dear Philip," replied Celia, laughing. "But you have never been in England, have you?"
"Never—I wish I had."
"What is the Pretender like, Philip?"
"Well, Madam, the Jacobites say he would be only and wholly like his father, if he were not so very like his mother: while you Whigs are of opinion that he resembles some washerwoman at Egham, or bricklayer at Rotherhithe—don't remember which, and doesn't matter."
"But what, or whom, do you think him like?"
"Not very like his mother, in my judgment, which is very unbiased, except in his height, and the shape of his hands and mouth. Still, I should not call him unlike her. Of his likeness to his father I can say nothing, for I don't remember King James, who died when I was only eight years old. The son is a very tall man—there is over six feet of him, I should say—with a long face, nearly oval,—dark eyes, rather fine,—and a pleasant, good-natured sort of mouth."