naughty archness that song of Mr. Congreve's:

"Thus to a ripe consenting maid,
Poor old repenting Delia said,
Would you long preserve your lover?
Would you still his goddess reign?
Never let him all discover,
Never let him much obtain.

Men will admire, adore and die
While wishing at your feet they lie;
But admitting their embraces
Wakes 'em from the golden dream:
Nothing's new besides our faces,
Every woman is the same."

She contorted her own face into smug folly by way of illustration. Then
she and Geoffrey laughed together. "I vow you're the most deliciously
wicked creature that ever was born a maid."

"D'ye regret it, sir? Faith, I could not well be born a wife."

"No, ma'am, that's an honour to be won by care and pains."

"Pains! Lud, yes, I believe that. But, dear sir, I reckon it the
punishment for folly. Why,"--she chose to see Harry--"why, here is our
knight of the rueful countenance!"

Mr. Waverton laughed. "It is related of the Egyptians--"