“I fancy that you are entirely mistaken both with respect to Mr. Hervey and Lady Delacour,” Belinda very seriously began to say. But Mrs. Freke interrupted her, and ran on; “No! no! no! I’m not mistaken; Clarence has found her out. She’s a very woman—that he could forgive her, and so could I; but she’s a mere woman—and that he can’t forgive—no more can I.”
There was a kind of drollery about Mrs. Freke, which, with some people, made the odd things she said pass for wit. Humour she really possessed; and when she chose it, she could be diverting to those who like buffoonery in women. She had set her heart upon winning Belinda over to her party. She began by flattery of her beauty; but as she saw that this had no effect, she next tried what could be done by insinuating that she had a high opinion of her understanding, by talking to her as an esprit fort.
“For my part,” said she, “I own I should like a strong devil better than a weak angel.”
“You forget,” said Belinda, “that it is not Milton, but Satan, who says,
‘Fallen spirit, to be weak is to be miserable.’”
“You read, I see!—I did not know you were a reading girl. So was I once; but I never read now. Books only spoil the originality of genius: very well for those who can’t think for themselves—but when one has made up one’s opinion, there is no use in reading.”
“But to make them up,” replied Belinda, “may it not be useful?”
“Of no use upon earth to minds of a certain class. You, who can think for yourself, should never read.”
“But I read that I may think for myself.”
“Only ruin your understanding, trust me. Books are full of trash—nonsense, conversation is worth all the books in the world.”