“Oh, Pigott, never mind all these reflections, though I’m sure I don’t know how you can think of such things. The idea of comparing poor dear Arthur with a tom-cat! But tell me, how can I go to Madeira? Supposing that he is married?”
“Well, then you would learn all about it for yourself, and no gammoning; and there’d be an end to it, one way or the other.”
“But would it be quite modest, to run after him like that?”
“Modest, indeed! And why shouldn’t a young lady travel for her health? I have heard say that this Madeiry is a wonderful place for the stomach.”
“The lungs, Pigott—the lungs.”
“Well, then, the lungs. But it don’t matter; they ain’t far off each other.”
“But, Pigott, who could I go with? I could not go alone.”
“Go with? Why, me, of course.”
“I can hardly fancy you at sea, Pigott.”
“And why not, miss? I dare say I shall do as well as other folks there; and if I do go to the bottom, as seems likely, there’s plenty of room for a respectable person there, I should hope. Look here, dear. You’ll never be happy unless you marry Mr. Arthur; so don’t you go and throw away a chance, just out of foolishness, and for fear of what folks say. That’s how dozens of women make a mess of it. Folks say one thing to-day and another to-morrow, but you’ll remain you for all that. Maybe he’s married; and, if so, it’s a bad business, and there’s an end of it; but maybe, too, he isn’t. As for that letter, as likely as not the other one will put it in the fire. I should, I doubt, if I were in her shoes. So don’t you lose any time, for, if he isn’t married, it’s like enough he soon will be.”