“None but a novice,” Mowbray answered, laughing, “could think that there was any essential difference between woman and woman.” Every woman was at heart the same. Of this he was so much convinced, that though he had not, he said, any absurd confidence in his own peculiar powers of pleasing, he was persuaded, that if honour had not put the trial quite out of the question on his part, he could as easily have won the fair Jewess as any other of her sex. My indignation rose. “Honour and friendship to me, my lord, are out of the question: forgive me, if I own that I do not think your lordship would there have any chance of success.” “At all events you know you are safe; I cannot make the trial without your permission.” “Your lordship is perfectly at liberty, if you think proper, to make the trial.” “Indeed!--Are you in earnest?--Now you have put it into my head, I will think of it seriously.” Then in a careless, pick-tooth manner, he stood, as if for some moments debating the matter with himself. “I have no great taste for matrimony or for Jewesses, but a Jewish heiress in the present state of my affairs--Harrington, you know the pretty little gipsy--the actress who played Jessica that night, so famous in your imagination, so fatal to us both--well, my little Jessica has, since that time, played away at a rare rate with my ready money--_dipped me_ confoundedly--‘twould be poetic justice to make one Jewess pay for another, if one could. Two hundred thousand pounds, Miss Montenero is, I think they say. ‘Pon my sincerity, ‘tis a temptation! Now it strikes me--if I am not bound in honour--” I walked away in disgust, while Mowbray, in the same tone, continued, “Let me see, now--suppose--only suppose--any thing may be by supposition--suppose we were rivals. As rivals, things would be wonderfully fair and even between us. You, Harrington, I grant, have the advantage of first impressions--she has smiled upon you; while I, bound in honour, stood by like a mummy--but unbound, set at liberty by express permission--give me a fortnight’s time, and if I don’t make her blush, my name’s not Mowbray!--and no matter whom a woman smiles upon, the man who makes her blush is the man. But seriously, Harrington, am I hurting your feelings? If what is play to me is death to you, I have done. Bind me over again to my good behaviour you may, by a single word. Instead of defying me, only swear, or, stay--I won’t put you to your oath--say candidly, upon your honour, Lord Mowbray puts you in fear of your love.”