"It would be indeed so strange," cries the lady, "that you shall not
persuade me it was ever the opinion of any man."

"Perhaps not," cries the doctor; "and I believe you and I should not
differ in our judgments of any person who maintained such an opinion--
What a taste must he have!"

"A most contemptible one indeed," cries Mrs. Atkinson.

"I am satisfied," cries the doctor. "And in the words of your own
Horace, _Verbum non amplius addam_."

"But how provoking is this," cries Mrs. Atkinson, "to draw one in such
a manner! I protest I was so warm in the defence of my favourite
Virgil, that I was not aware of your design; but all your triumph
depends on a supposition that one should be so unfortunate as to meet
with the silliest fellow in the world."

"Not in the least," cries the doctor. "Doctor Bentley was not such a
person; and yet he would have quarrelled, I am convinced, with any
wife in the world, in behalf of one of his corrections. I don't
suppose he would have given up his _Ingentia Fata_ to an angel."

"But do you think," said she, "if I had loved him, I would have
contended with him?"

"Perhaps you might sometimes," said the doctor, "be of these
sentiments; but you remember your own Virgil--_Varium et mutabile
semper faemina_."