"Only until he has buried his benefactor," murmured Kate, in deprecating accents.
George wore a bitter sneer at this.
"Mistress Kate," said he, after a significant pause, "do you read Molière?"
She bridled a little, and would not reply. She knew Molière quite well enough not to want his wit levelled at her head.
"Do you admire the character of Célimène?"
No reply.
"You do not. How can you? She was too much your inferior. She never sent one of her lovers with a letter to the other to stop his flight. Well, you may eclipse Célimène; but permit me to remind you that I am George Neville, and not Georges Dandin."
Miss Peyton rose from her seat with eyes that literally flashed fire; and—the horrible truth must be told—her first wild impulse was to reply to all this Molière with one cut of her little riding-whip. But she had a swift mind, and two reflections entered it together: first, that this would be unlike a gentlewoman; secondly, that, if she whipped Mr. Neville, however inefficaciously, he would not lend her his piebald horse. So she took stronger measures; she just sank down again, and faltered,—
"I do not understand these bitter words. I have no lover at all; I never will have one again. But it is hard to think I cannot make a friend nor keep a friend,"—and so lifted up her hands, and began to cry piteously.
Then the stout George was taken aback, and made to think himself a ruffian.