“The—the—I’ll not say it; but I only wish I had something in my hand.”
“If I have offended, Ursula, I am very sorry for it; any offence I may have given you was from want of understanding you. Come, pray be seated, I have much to question you about—to talk to you about.”
“Seated, not I! It was only just now that you gave me to understand that you was ashamed to be seated by me, a thief, a liar.”
“Well, did you not almost give me to understand that you were both, Ursula?”
“I don’t much care being called a thief and a liar,” said Ursula; “a person may be a liar and thief, and yet a very honest woman, but—”
“Well, Ursula.”
“I tell you what, brother, if you ever sinivate again that I could be the third thing, so help me duvel! I’ll do you a mischief. By my God I will!”
“Well, Ursula, I assure you that I shall sinivate, as you call it, nothing of the kind about you. I have no doubt, from what you have said, that you are a very paragon of virtue—a perfect Lucretia; but—”
“My name is Ursula, brother, and not Lucretia: Lucretia is not of our family, but one of the Bucklands; she travels about Oxfordshire; yet I am as good as she any day.”
“Lucretia; how odd! Where could she have got that name? Well, I make no doubt, Ursula, that you are quite as good as she, and she as her namesake of ancient Rome; but there is a mystery in this same virtue, Ursula, which I cannot fathom; how a thief and a liar should be able, or indeed willing, to preserve her virtue is what I don’t understand. You confess that you are very fond of gold. Now, how is it that you don’t barter your virtue for gold sometimes? I am a philosopher, Ursula, and like to know everything. You must be every now and then exposed to great temptation, Ursula; for you are of a beauty calculated to captivate all hearts. Come, sit down and tell me how you are enabled to resist such a temptation as gold and fine clothes?”