“It depends on the prettiness of the face. It would be true in your case.”
“I don’t in the least want compliments. I want the plain truth.”
“And I’m giving it.”
“Oh,” said Dolly, evidently disconcerted. He had checked her for the minute, and she remained silent, though fresh questions were at her very lips.
“Are you fond of acting?” Farquhar asked, to loosen her tongue. “Are you burning to play Juliet?”
“Juliet? Oh no! I’d like to be Cleopatra or Lady Macbeth, though. Some one powerful and perhaps wicked; but not like La Dame aux Camélias, or Iris, or Agnes Ebbsmith. If I threw the Bible in the fire, I should keep it there.”
“And make it eternal, and make it red-hot,” suggested Farquhar.
“Did you read those lines? Aren’t they good? Years ago I wrote them there, and father never could make me rub them out, though he tried with his riding-whip. But that wouldn’t interest you. On your honour, do you think I should have a chance on the stage?”
“On my honour, I do. But why do you want to go? I should have thought you’d too much sense to be stage-struck.”
“I’m not stage-struck, but I want to leave this place, and that seems the simplest way. We are badly off. I never see any one except my brother. I do not know how to behave. I have never had the chance of speaking to a gentleman before: which was why I called you in and asked you these questions. I expect no girl you know would have done it, would she?”