“She fares but ill, Sir,” answers she, making to proceed.
“No, no, not so fast, I implore; oh, Sir, I die for her!”
“Very well, Sir, she is willing. I am pressed for time and must away.”
“One word. You say she’s willing I should die for her?”
“Oh, Sir Robin, importune me no further. I know not what she’s willing for!”
“Now, now,” soothes the Baronet. “We’re well met, Mr. Incognito, that I’m assured of; and that Lady Peggy’d far rather I’d live than die for her,” leers he, “since for the sake of communicating with me she’s at, no doubt, great expenses in maintaining you?”
At this Her Ladyship laughs, as many a lady may do any day, at the strange construction a man who is blessed with vanity contrives to put upon her actions.
“’Tis so, I know’t!” exclaims he, grinning unctuously. “Now, Sir, tell me, goes she—” his voice sinks to a whisper as he applies his mouth nigh to Peg’s ear—“goes she to Vauxhall in Beau Brummell’s party, along with her brother, o’ Tuesday night?”
A thousand thoughts rush helter-skelter through Her Ladyship’s brain, pro and con the answering of this query.
Presently, sedately, at the corner of the street, says she, with no smallest notion of the import or the outcome of her words, merely uttered as a light and easy means of make-off: