SIR W. Now, my dear, that we are alone, I must tell you that your behaviour has been abominable.
MAR. Oh! has it? Now if I didn’t think I was quite the lady!
SIR W. What with your directions respecting your animals, and your reference to your cousin Joe and the old woman your schoolmistress, and your ridiculous eulogium on the uniform of the yeomanry, I thought I should have taken to my heels and have run out of the house.
MAR. I wish you had—I know I should have got on much better without you at my elbow. And as for my cousin Joe, he may be a stupid fellow and all that, but he’s a very good fellow, and if he don’t know how to make a proper bow, or a long speech like you do—such as when I’ve heard you practising to yourself about railroads, and borrowing money, and taxes, and the state of the nation, and situation of the population, and that horrible Education—he can talk so as I can understand him, and that’s more than I always can when you talk—and anybody else, for the matter o’ that. And if I did like the sojers I used to see so often, what harm was there in that? I’m sure the Captain was a fine man, a very fine man, whiskers and all—and I’ve often looked at him till I’ve felt as if I could eat him.
SIR W. I know that you mean no harm—I know that your heart is pure; but you must learn to be conscious of your present station in society. The diamond, though of value in its rough and original state, must be polished and set before it can be worn. Now to-day, when I rang for the cook and wished you to commence giving your own orders for dinner, and had previously practised you in the pronunciation of asking for cabillaud au gratin poulet roti—pomme de terre bute——
MAR. Well, I couldn’t recollect it, and so I thought it best to ask for what I liked better than anything.
SIR W. And are you aware what you did ask for?
MAR. I only asked for a toad in a hole.
SIR W. And didn’t you perceive the vain endeavour of the servant to conceal his laughter? didn’t you perceive my face suffused with blushes?
MAR. Well, I speak according to my knowledge, and I know I always speak the truth and what I want to say, without any beating about the bush; and that’s much better than being deceitful and making believe to be glad to see people when you really wish ’em at Jericho, and go grinning and smiling up to ’em, and shaking hands, when in your heart you’d like to shake ’em inside out—and make use of fine words and say beautiful things when you don’t mean it. You may call it polish if you like, but I call it telling lies.