“It’s your own fault for coming,” squeaked the Goose-girl. “Let’s go and talk it over in a private box.”
“No, indeed; private boxes are very expensive. My dear creature, for Heaven’s sake, let me sit down on this settee. I—I—anxious to obliterate”—he began, violently rubbing his back against the cushions of the sofa. “I am quite at a loss to understand,” he said; “but tell me, my dear, you didn’t—eh?”
“Yes, indeed,” replied the maiden. “Your style and title, Mynheer the Councillor, were written there in full.”
He broke into an oath. “Not my name,” he sobbed. “You—you didn’t see my name?”
The Goose-girl sat down beside him. She used a small instrument to disguise her voice. “Why did you come here, you horrid old man?” she said. “I saw you flirting with Little Red Riding-hood. I saw you dancing with that atrocious Bacchante. ‘Clandestine love-affairs,’ ‘Anonymous engagements.’ And your wife not five weeks dead! Oh, Uncle Jacob—Uncle Jacob!” Harriet dropped into her natural voice, letting fall both her mask and her manner.
“Harriet!” exclaimed Mopius, “this exceeds—”
“Indeed it does,” she interrupted, coolly. “Don’t speak so loud, dear uncle, or the Goose will be coming back.”
Mynheer Mopius started to his feet.
“This is some conspiracy to ruin me,” he said, speaking like one dazed. “I’m ruined already. I’m going—”