"You do yourself injustice, sir, as I am a woman.

Your wits want nothing more in briskness." She rose, and looked down upon him engrossed in his broth.

"For a dissembler, sir," she pronounced upon him acidly, "I think it would be difficult to meet your match." He dropped his spoon into the bowl with a clatter.

He looked up, the very picture of amazement and consternation.
"A dissembler, I ?" quoth he in earnest protest; then laughed and quoted, adapting, "'Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts Or carry smiles and sunshine in my face Should discontent sit heavy at my heart." She looked him over, pursing her lips.

"I've often thought you might have been a player," said she contemptuously.
"I'faith," he laughed, "I'd sooner play than toil." "Ay; but you make a toil of play, sir." "Compassionate me, ma'am," he implored in the best of humors.