“Never tell him, my lord,” said Claudio. “Let her wear out her affection with good counsel.” “Nay, that’s impossible,” said Leonato; “she may wear her heart out first.” “Well, we will hear further of it from your daughter,” said Don Pedro. “I love Benedick well, and I could wish he would modestly examine himself to see how much he is unworthy so good a lady.” “My lord, will you walk? Dinner is ready,” said Leonato. “If he do not doat on her after this, I will never trust my expectation,” laughed Claudio, as the conspirators withdrew. “Let there be the same net spread for Beatrice,” said Don Pedro, “and that your daughter and her gentlewomen must carry out. The sport will be when they each believe in the other’s doating, when there is no such matter; that’s the scene I should like to see.... Let us send her to call him in to dinner.” When the others had gone, Benedick came forth from his hiding-place, deeply impressed with what he had heard. “Poor lady!” he thought. “So she really loves me! Well, her affection must be requited. I hear how I am censured. They say I will bear myself proudly if I see the love come from her. They say, too, she will rather die than give any sign of affection.... I never thought to marry.... I must not seem proud. Happy are those that hear their detractions and can put them to mending. They say the lady is fair; ’tis a truth, I can bear them witness. And virtuous; it is so. And wise; but for loving me. By my troth, it is no addition to her wit, and no great argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her. I may chance to have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because I have railed so long against marriage; but does not a man’s opinion alter?... When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I was married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day, she is a fair lady! I do spy some marks of love in her.” [Illustration: “Yet tell her of it; hear what she will say.”] Quite unconscious of all that had taken place, Beatrice advanced, and in her usual mocking style announced: “Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.” “Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains,” said Benedick. “I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me,” said Beatrice carelessly. “If it had been painful I would not have come.” “You take pleasure, then, in the message?” said Benedick eagerly. “Yes, just so much as you may take upon a knife’s point, and choke a daw withal,” laughed Beatrice. “You have no appetite, signor? Fare you well.” And off she went gaily. “Ha! ‘Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.’ There’s a double meaning in that,” thought the poor deluded Benedick. “‘I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me.’ That’s as much as to say, ‘Any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks.’ If I do not take pity on her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture!”