“Pho! what,—why you know what: in short, can you read? and can you write?”
“No, ma'am!”
“I thought so,” cried she, “I have suspected it was a trick, some time, and now I am sure of it. You are too young by half!—it can't be!”
I laughed, and would have got away, but she would not let me.
“No,” cried she, “one thing you must, at least, tell me;—are you very conceited? Come, answer me,” continued she. “You won't? Mrs. Burney, Dr. Burney,—come here,—tell me if she is not very conceited?—if she is not eat up with conceit by this time?”
They were both pleased to answer “Not half enough.”
“Well,” exclaimed she, “that is the most wonderful part of all! Why, that is yet more extraordinary than writing the book.”
I then got away from her, and again looked over Miss Palmer's cards: but she was after me in a minute,
“Pray, Miss Burney,” cried she, aloud, “do you know any thing of this game?”
“No, ma'am.”