"Why, so it shall," says I, "for your father does intend to come hither before long."
"He is coming to see my dear husband!" says she, her face aglow with joy.
"Aye, but he does promise to be most circumspect, and appear as if, returning from a voyage, he had come but to see how you fare, and will stay no longer than is reasonably civil."
"Only that," says she, her countenance falling again, "we are to hide our love, pretend indifference, behave towards this dear father as if he were nought to me but a friend."
"My dear," says I, "'tis no new part you have to play."
"I know it," she answers hotly, "but that makes it only the worse."
"Well, what would you?"
"Anything" (with passion). "I would do anything but cheat and cozen the man I love." Then, after some moments' silence o' both sides, "Oh, if I were really Judith Godwin!"
"If you were she, you'd be in Barbary now, and have neither father nor lover; is that what you want?" says I, with some impatience.
"Bear with me," says she, with a humility as strange in her as these new-born scruples of conscience.