“I believe she does, and that's a better thing.”
“Ay; so it is,” said he, saucily, “for ladies; ladies should rather write than read.”
“But authors,” cried I, “before they write should read.”
Returning again to the S. S., and being again rallied about her by Mrs. Thrale, who said she believed at last he would end there,—he said,
“Why, if I must marry—if I was bid to choose between that and racking on the wheel, I believe I should go to her.”
We all laughed at this exquisite compliment; but, as he said, it was a compliment, for though it proved no passion for her, it proved a preference.
“However,” he continued, “it won't do.”
“Upon my word,” exclaimed I, “you settle it all your own way!—the lady would be ready at any rate!”
“Oh yes! any man might marry Sophy Streatfield.”
I quite stopt to exclaim against him.