Young Henry, struck with compassion at grief of which he knew not the cause, begged to know “what was the matter?”
“Inhuman monsters, to treat a woman thus!” cried his aunt in a fury, casting the corner of her eye into a looking-glass, to see how rage became her.
“But, comfort yourself,” said one of her companions: “few people will believe you merit the charge.”
“But few! if only one believe it, I shall call my reputation lost, and I will shut myself up in some lonely hut, and for ever renounce all that is dear to me!”
“What! all your fine clothes?” said Henry, in amazement.
“Of what importance will my best dresses be, when nobody would see them?”
“You would see them yourself, dear aunt; and I am sure nobody admires them more.”
“Now you speak of that,” said she, “I do not think this gown I have on becoming—I am sure I look—”
The dean, with the bishop (to whom he had been reading a treatise just going to the press, which was to be published in the name of the latter, though written by the former), now entered, to inquire why they had been sent for in such haste.
“Oh, Dean! oh, my Lord Bishop!” she cried, resuming that grief which the thoughts of her dress had for a time dispelled—“My reputation is destroyed—a public print has accused me of playing deep at my own house, and winning all the money.”