“Sir, you are a rude boor!” cried the lady very prettily.
“If so, madam, I am rude at my own expense,” said he. “My words implied a ‘Nunc Dimittis’.”
“Now that I come to think on’t, that is so,” said she. “But I am sure that you, being a man, must hold with me that the ideal Church is the one that grants absolution without insisting on confession.”
“I am a sound Churchman, Mrs. Abington,” said he; “I will not countenance the least suspicion of what is not orthodox.”
“Psha! sir, that is equivalent to a confession that you like your salads without vinegar,” said she—“your punch without lemon—your spice-cakes without spice—your charmer without a bit of Mother Eve.”
“Madam,” said he, “’tis now you who are orthodox—ay, up to the first chapter of Genesis; but for my part, I adore your sex, from Genesis until the Revelation comes.”
“The Revelation? Do you mean until the revealing of the woman or the Revelation of the Divine?”
“Mrs. Abington, I am orthodox: I cannot admit that there is any difference between the two.”
“You are a quibbler, I vow; but I would not hear your worst enemy accuse you of being orthodox.”