"Yes, my lady Pert,—he worships you and, consequently, is deceiving you with every breath he draws!"
"Deceiving me—!"
"With every moment he lives!"
"But—oh, God-mother—!"
"Cleone,—he is not what he seems!"
"Deceiving me?"
"His very name is false!"
"What do you mean? Ah no, no—I'm sure he would not, and yet—oh,
God-mother,—why?"
"Because—hush, Cleone—he's immensely rich, one of the wealthiest young men in London, and—hush! He would be—loved for himself alone. So, Cleone,—listen,—he may perhaps come to you with some wonderful story of poverty and humble birth. He may tell you his father was only a—a farmer, or a tinker, or a—an inn-keeper. Oh dear me,—so delightfully romantic! Therefore, loving him as you do—"
"I don't!"