"There are very many honest gentlemen," he said.
"Yes, but they do not love everybody," said Philippa; "and that for a very good reason."
"What?"
The young girl laughed.
"Because they love themselves so much," she said. "Gallant Adonises! they think themselves handsome, nay, more lovely than all the maidens in the world!"
Mowbray caught the infectious mirth of the young girl, and smiled. Poor Mowbray! where were all his mighty resolutions—his fair promises—his determination to remain an iceberg in presence of this haughty young girl? He was falling more deeply in love with her every moment.
"You are very severe upon the fine gentlemen," he said; "I think your picture is the exception."
"No, no! the rule! the rule!" she went on laughing. "Just look at them yonder. See how they smile and simper, and press their hands to their hearts, and daintily arrange their drop curls! I would as soon be loved by a lay-figure!"
And Philippa burst into a fit of merry laughter.
"Look!" she said; "see that ridiculous young gentleman near the door, with the velvet breast-knot—think of a velvet breast-knot! See how he daintily helps himself to snuff from a box with a picture of Madame Pompadour, or some celebrated lady, upon the lid; and see his jewelled hand, his simpering face, his languid air, his affected drawl as he murmurs, 'Ah—yes—madam—very—warm—but a charming—spectacle.' On my word! I would always provide myself with a bottle of sal volatile when such gentlemen came to see me!"