“Only ruin your understanding, trust me. Books are full of trash--nonsense, conversation is worth all the books in the world.” “And is there never any nonsense in conversation?” “What have you here?” continued Mrs. Freke, who did not choose to attend to this question; exclaiming, as she reviewed each of the books on the table in their turns, in the summary language of presumptuous ignorance, “Smith’s Theory of Moral Sentiments--milk and water! Moore’s Travels--hasty pudding! La Bruyère--nettle porridge! This is what you were at when I came in, was it not?” said she, taking up a book[8] in which she saw Belinda’s mark: “Against Inconsistency in our Expectations. Poor thing! who bored you with this task?” “Mr. Percival recommended it to me, as one of the best essays in the English language.” “The devil! they seem to have put you in a course of the bitters--a course of the woods might do your business better. Do you ever hunt?--Let me take you out with me some morning--you’d be quite an angel on horseback; or let me drive you out some day in my unicorn.” Belinda declined this invitation, and Mrs. Freke strode away to the window to conceal her mortification, threw up the sash, and called out to her groom, “Walk those horses about, blockhead!” Mr. Percival and Mr. Vincent at this instant came into the room. “Hail, fellow! well met!” cried Mrs. Freke, stretching out her hand to Mr. Vincent. It has been remarked, that an antipathy subsists between creatures, who, without being the same, have yet a strong external resemblance. Mr. Percival saw this instinct rising in Mr. Vincent, and smiled. “Hail, fellow! well met! I say. Shake hands and be friends, man! Though I’m not in the habit of making apologies, if it will be any satisfaction to you, I beg your pardon for frightening your poor devil of a black.” Then turning towards Mr. Percival, she measured him with her eye, as a person whom she longed to attack. She thought, that if Belinda’s opinion of the understanding of _these Percivals_ could be lowered, she should rise in her esteem: accordingly, she determined to draw Mr. Percival into an argument. “I’ve been talking treason, I believe, to Miss Portman,” cried she; “for I’ve been opposing some of your opinions, Mr. Percival.” “If you opposed them all, madam,” said Mr. Percival, “I should not think it treason.” “Vastly polite!--But I think all our politeness hypocrisy: what d’ye say to that?” “You know that best, madam!” “Then I’ll go a step farther; for I’m determined you shall contradict me: I think all virtue is hypocrisy.” “I need not contradict you, madam,” said Mr. Percival, “for the terms which you make use of contradict themselves.” “It is my system,” pursued Mrs. Freke, “that shame is always the cause of the vices of women.” “It is sometimes the effect,” said Mr. Percival; “and, as cause and effect are reciprocal, perhaps you may, in some instances, be right.”