‘Don’t riddle to me about mistakenly and such dark things. Now what was your motive, dearest, in running the risk of having me here?’
‘Your beauty,’ he said.
‘She thanks you much for the compliment, but will not take it. Come, what was your motive?’
‘Your wit.’
‘No, no; not my wit. Wit would have made a wife of me by this time instead of what I am.’
‘Your virtue.’
‘Or virtue either.’
‘I tell you it was your beauty—really.’
‘But I cannot help seeing and hearing, and if what people say is true, I am not nearly so good-looking as Cytherea, and several years older.’
The aspect of Manston’s face at these words from her was so confirmatory of her hint, that his forced reply of ‘O no,’ tended to develop her chagrin.