“The devil he is!” “I never said _he_, now.” “She, then.” “Nor _she_. Kit’s Kit.” “Zounds! Neither man nor woman?” “Zounds! Why not? Doesn’t something come between man and woman?” “What comes?” “Why, the devil, sure.” “Ah! Then Kit _is_ the devil.” “Indeed, Kit is not. Kit is what the devil comes between.” “Wait, now. I scent a quibble. Kit stands for Christopher, and Kit stands for Katherine--both man and woman. They go arm in arm.” “Not they. Why, Chris could never look at a woman without blushing.” “And how about Kate?” “O, _she_! _She’d_ go arm in arm with a pair of breeches.” My lord laughed, half vexedly: “She never could, you know.” Moll turned on him. “’Twas you, not me, called Kit the devil. Why don’t you answer for your own?” and, with a manner of playful fretfulness, she began to tease and rally him _sotto voce_. Hamilton looked, with a grin, at his cousin, then moved to rejoin her. She stood with set lips and a disdainful frown on her brow. “How can you encourage such intolerable stuff?” she said, in an undertone, as he approached. “Come with me into the window,” he answered low; and, rebelling a moment, she succumbed. It was a large room, and the movement secured them a relative privacy. “Stuff it may be,” said he; “but ’tis the sort of ready flippancy which leads your Philip Stanhopes by the nose. Is there any truth in this Kit?” “How should I know or care? Some former flame of his, belike, with whom they play to perplex and insult me. It is no concern of mine. I am done with him.” “Is that true, cousin?” He looked at her very earnestly. “Nay, I can see you are not speaking the truth.” “Can you see? What true masculine eyes! I tell you that, having formed my resolve, I am quite unconcerned and happy!” “Ah! Women think themselves what they want to be. That is why they never understand when they are accused of being what they are.” “Indeed! And pray what am I that I do not think myself?” “Jealous.” “Never!” “Jealous, I say--or you were not still so obsessed that you could fail to play the game I set you.” “What game?” “O! ‘What game?’ says she. Why, _his_ game--or fatuity. Make _him_ jealous; hoist him with his own petard, and see this common jade deposed.”