"I could have spared you this, Miss Burns. Mr. Thornton—"
"Indeed, Ma'am," I interrupted, "I am not thinking of Mr. Thornton; but I fear Mr. O'Reilly is vexed with me: that is the truth."
I thought this would rid me of her tiresome jealousy, but it did not.
"Poor child!" she said compassionately, "I see you know nothing. Perhaps it is scarcely right to betray Bertha to you; but can I help also feeling for you? Do you know the play of Shakespeare entitled 'Much Ado about Nothing'?"
"Yes, Ma'am, I know it."
"Do you remember the ingenious manner in which two of the characters are made to fall in love with one another? Benedick thinks Beatrice is dying for him, and Beatrice thinks the same thing of him."
"That was vanity, Ma'am, not love."
"Ay, but vanity is a potent passion, and 'Much Ado about Nothing' is a play still daily enacted on the scene of the world."
I heard her with some impatience; I thought her discourse resembled the play of which it treated. She saw plain speech alone would make me comprehend her meaning.
"Our dear Bertha," she sighed, "has quite a passion for match-making. For instance, she will teaze me about Captain Craik, and says he is mad about me. I don't mind it, provided she does not say the same thing to him."