"Heavens! What a preparation for an heiress! But, perhaps, it is not so great a fortune after all. And do you go about daily dressed like this—in stuff or linsey woolsey?"
"It is my workaday dress. I have a better for Sunday."
"I dare say—I dare say. What do they call you? Molly? It is a good name for you. Molly. There is something simple about it—something rustical yet not uncouth, like Blousabella. Your face will pass, Molly. It is a fair garden of red and white. Your eyes are good; they can be soft and affectionate. I should think they could also be hard and unforgiving. Your hair is delightful; even the tresses of Amaryllis are coarse and thick compared with yours. Your hand, my dear, is a soft and warm hand, but it is too red—you work with it."
"Why, what else should I work with?"
"The only work you should do is the shuffling and the dealing of cards—your hands were made for this purpose—or to handle a fan, or to wear gloves; but not to work, believe me."
Molly looked at her hand. It was a workwoman's hand, being, though small, thick and strong, with fingers square rather than long. She looked and laughed. "What would you say, madam, if you saw me rowing a boat or handling the sail while Jack Pentecrosse steers? I have done much rougher work in a boat than in the stillroom."
"These confessions amaze me, my dear. With ships—actually the plural of the word ship!—and lands—what lands?—and houses, and that sum of money, that you should live in a house like this, without servants, without dress—your clothes are not dress—without a coach—and that you should be allowed…. Pray, Molly, what does your mother think of it?"
"My mother teaches me to do what she herself does."
"Yet you came the other night in a costly dress, and you danced the minuet."
"The director of the ceremonies, Mr. Prappet, taught me the dance."