"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 Moliere?" She bridled a little, and would not reply. She knew Moliere quite well enough not to want his wit levelled at her head. "Do you admire the character of Celimene?" 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 Celimene; 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 Moliere 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. "Nay, do not weep so, Mistress Kate," said he, hurriedly. "Come, take courage. I am not jealous of Mr. Gaunt,--a man that hath been two years dangling after you, and could not win you. I look but to my own self-respect in the matter. I know your sex better than you know yourselves. Were I to carry that letter, you would thank me now, but by-and-by despise me. Now, as I mean you to be my wife, I will not risk your contempt. Why not take my horse, put whom you like on him, and so convey the letter to Mr. Gaunt?" Now this was all the fair mourner wanted; so she said,-- "No, no, she would not be beholden to him for anything; he had spoken harshly to her, and misjudged her cruelly, cruelly,--oh! oh! oh!" Then he implored her to grant him this small favor; then she cleared up, and said, Well, sooner than bear malice, she would. He thanked her for granting him that favor. She went off with the letter, saying,-- "I will be back anon." But once she got clear, she opened the door again, and peeped in at him gayly, and said she,-- "Why not ask me who _wrote_ the letter, before you compared me to that French coquette?"--and, with this, made him an arch curtsy, and tripped away.