I said softly, "Dear Miss Darnford" (for Mr. B. and the Nun were out of sight in a moment), "what is become of that Nun?"—"Rather," whispered she, "what is become of the Spaniard?"
A Cardinal attacked me instantly in French; but I answered in English, not knowing what he said, "Quakers are not fit company for Red-hats."
"They are," said he, in the same language; "for a Quaker and a Jesuit is the same thing."
Miss Darnford was addressed by the name of the Sprightly Widow: another asked, how long she intended to wear those weeds? And a footman, in a rich livery, answered for her eyes, through her mask, that it would not be a month.
But I was startled when a Presbyterian Parson came up, and bid me look after my Musidorus—So that I doubted not by this, it must be one who knew my name to be Pamela; and I soon thought of one of my lawyers, whose characters I gave before.
Indeed, he needed not to bid me; for I was sorry, on more accounts than that of my timorousness, to have lost sight of him. "Out upon these nasty masquerades!" thought I; "I can't abide them already!"
An egregious beauish appearance came up to Miss, and said, "You hang out a very pretty sign, Widow."
"Not," replied she, "to invite such fops as you to my shop."
"Any customer would be welcome," returned he, "in my opinion. I whisper this as a secret."
"And I whisper another," said she, but not whisperingly, "that no place warrants ill manners."