"What do you want it for?" he inquired, hoping faintly she might intend to restore the ring.
"To seek it out, to go to her abode, to crush her! Is she not my rival?"
"Crush my Matilda?" he cried in agony. "You'll never do such a thing as that?"
"You have revealed her name! I have but to ask in your streets, 'Where abideth Matilda, the beloved of Leander, the dresser of hair? Lead me to her dwelling.' And having arrived thereat, I shall crush her, and thus she shall deservedly perish!"
He was horrified at the possible effects of his slip, which he hastened to repair. "You won't find it so easy to come at her, luckily," he said; "there's hundreds of Matildas in London alone."
"Then," said the goddess, sweetly and calmly, "it is simple: I shall crush them all."
"Oh, lor!" whimpered Leander, "here's a bloodthirsty person! Where's the sense of doing that?"
"Because, dissipated reveller that you are, you love them."
"Now, when did I ever say I loved them? I don't even know more than two or three, and those I look on as sisters—in fact" (here he hit upon a lucky evasion) "they are sisters—it's only another name for them. I've a brother and three Matildas, and here are you talking of crushing my poor sisters as if they were so many beadles—all for nothing!"
"Is this the truth? Palter not with me! You are pledged to no mortal bride?"