CHAPTER XXIII

Mrs. _Bridget_ had pawn’d all the little stock of honour a poor chambermaid was worth in the world, that she would get to the bottom of the affair in ten days; and it was built upon one of the most concessible _postulata_ in nature: namely, that whilst my uncle _Toby_ was making love to her mistress, the corporal could find nothing better to do, than make love to her---- “_And I’ll let him as much as he will_, said _Bridget_, _to get it out of him_.”

Friendship has two garments; an outer and an under one. _Bridget_ was serving her mistress’s interests in the one--and doing the thing which most pleased herself in the other; so had as many stakes depending upon my uncle _Toby’s_ wound, as the Devil himself ----Mrs. _Wadman_ had but one--and as it possibly might be her last (without discouraging Mrs. _Bridget_, or discrediting her talents) was determined to play her cards herself.

She wanted not encouragement: a child might have look’d into his hand----there was such a plainness and simplicity in his playing out what trumps he had----with such an unmistrusting ignorance of the _ten-ace_----and so naked and defenceless did he sit upon the same sopha with widow _Wadman_, that a generous heart would have wept to have won the game of him.

Let us drop the metaphor.

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