I took my courage in my hands and faced her, warning her of her peril in what delicate words I could find.

Alas, I made nothing of it.

A scornful jest at me and my righteousness (of which, said she, all London had been talking a little while back) was the first shot from her battery.

The mention of the Duke's name brought a blush and a mischievous smile, as she answered: "Shouldn't I make a fine Duchess, Mr Dale ?" "Ay, if he made you one," said I with gloomy bluntness.
"You insult me, sir," she cried, and the flush on her face deepened.
"Then I do in few words what his Grace does in many," I retorted.
I went about it like a dolt, I do not doubt.

For she flew out at me, demanding in what esteem I held her, and in what her birth fell short of Anne Hyde's--"who is now Duchess of York, and in whose service I have the honour to be." "Is that your pattern ?" I asked.