“Cutting into my territory, I see. Take care or I’ll put Clarence into a play or a poem.”
“Good idea, but you are diverting me from my errand. I am here to ring a peal over you, Miss Imprudence. No my girl, widening your big blue eyes at me won’t save you from a scold. You know well enough you were the talk of the opera last night, with every rake and rattle in town drooling over you.”
“How nonsensical you are,” she said, happy to know he had seen her moment of glory.
“And as to making me a laughing stock with that curst viper’s tongue of yours. My Phyrne was furious; she is justly proud of her locks. You may be sure she heard of your wit.”
“There was no wit in it. I only said…"
“I know well enough what you said, and what you meant.”
“I only meant she coloured her hair.”
He sat up and stared at her. “Oh, no, you didn’t,” he contradicted flatly. “You said it very nicely, I grant you, but you called her a Phyrne. We all admit tacitly to these things, but we don’t run around broadcasting them, calling names.”
"Dammler, tell me so that I shan’t blunder again. Is her name not Fern?”
“Prudence Mallow,” he said, shaking his head, “you are either the biggest greenhead in town or the best actress.”
“What did I say?”
He hunched his shoulders, and threw up his hands in the gesture of helplessness so characteristic of him. “Where do I begin?" he asked himself. “Phyrne, sweet idiot, is not a name like Mary or Joan-it is a title, like Princess or Prostitute. Rather more like the latter, if you follow me."
Prudence was stunned, but she had resolved some time ago to match her new acquaintances in sophistication, and she tried gamely to rally. Still her shock was quite evident to him. “I see,” she said.
“You are disappointed in me."
“No,” she answered quickly. “Why should I be?”
“Why indeed, I never led you to believe I was a saint. Oh, Prudence, why did I ever meet you? You are giving me back my conscience. I was well rid of it. I haven’t felt such a reprobate since the first time I got drunk and Mama cried for two hours.”
"I am not crying,” she laughed at his boyish despair, and a little, too, at his using her first name without realizing it. “I am just a little surprised that you would be seen in such a public way with a-one of those women.”
“Well, everyone does. Half the females there last night were prostitutes. I hold them to be every bit as respectable as a married woman who commits adultery-more so, in fact. They’re not hypocrites. They have not promised to love, honour and obey anyone’s desires but their own. Why should it add to a woman’s virtue or reputation to deceive her husband with a lover? Surely that compounds the trespass. No, no, I won’t allow anyone to tell me I must restrict my amours to married ladies.”
“You ought to restrict yourself to an appearance at least of respectability.”
“Where did you get the bizarre idea my Phyrne is not respectable? Top of the frees. She has none but the most elevated of lovers, and only one at a time. Unlike the married ladies, who require at least two, and preferably three or four. It is better to consort with a Phyrne than with a married lady. There is no question of it in my mind. Tell me you disagree. On what logical grounds can you possibly refute me?”
“I don’t. There is much in what you say, but that is not to say that consorting with either one is good. You set up a home for ruined girls on one hand, and ruin them on the other. There is no logic in that.”
"Prudence, we’re talking about two very different species. Those little girls-young, ignorant without the sense to know what they’re getting into… My Phyrne-the mistresses of gentlemen, are in a different class entirely. They knowingly go into this sort of a life because they don’t want to work. They prefer a life of leisure and luxury, they have a beautiful body to buy it with, and they sell it. It is a business transaction.”
“Oh, don’t try to tell me it is a good thing to keep a mistress.”
“I didn’t say it was good.”
“You said it was better to have a mistress than to take another man’s wife. Surely better is a degree of good. Take it a step further, you lover of logic, and you must agree best would be to take no lovers at all. A chaste married lady or a spinster is better than either a Phyrne or an adulteress, surely.”
“Not to me she isn’t,” he replied unequivocally. “Oh, all right, if you’re talking theology or religion or some damned thing. I thought we were talking about real life, and not philosophy. In actual practice, it is less immoral-doesthat satisfy you-to keep an unmarried mistress than to go poaching on your friends’ private property.”
“Yes, I’ll accept that partial victory, before you convince me I’m a scoundrel for not selling my own old ramshackle body to help my uncle pay the bills.”
“Oh, I don’t go quite that far, Prudence,” he replied, throwing his head back in uncontrolled laughter. “And to think, I came here to read you a lecture! How did I end up giving you the notion you should take to the streets? We-Lady Melvine and myself-do not approve of your consorting with the Nabob.”
“Is Mr. Seville so rich then?”
“Full of juice. An uncle from the East India Company died and left him a million, literally.”
“I have no objection to the fact. Do you disapprove of money per se?”
“No, I am excessively fond of it, but…“
She looked, waiting.
“Your Mr. Seville-ah-likes the ladies. Of a certain sort.”
“The sort who use the title Phyrne?”
“Yes, those certainly, and those who use the title Duchess or Baroness even better. It is generally considered he is looking for a title, to ease his own way into the peerage. He cannot mean to marry you; he is well into negotiations with Baroness McFay, and for entertainment he prefers the muslin company. Why do I feel like a child molester telling you these things?”
“I don’t know, but you misjudge him. He is not like that at all. He has very strict notions of propriety.” She toyed with the idea of telling him Seville had feared she was Dammler’s lightskirt, but decided against it.
“Seville! He has no more notion of propriety than a jackrabbit.”
“How can you say so? He’s your friend. You introduced him to me.”
“Yes, and that is why I am worried. I never thought you’d catch his eye. You aren’t his type. I wonder if the old fool has decided to take up with the literary society. Might think it would lend him a vicarious air of intellect. God knows he could use it. He is very proper in his dealings with you?”
“Of course. Oh, he gossips about the ton, but you may be sure he does not take me for any loose piece of baggage.”
“There-I’ve depraved you. For Miss Mallow to be speaking of herself in terms of loose baggage! Well, he is up to something, but apparently it isn’t what we feared. I don’t like the company he introduces to you, however. I wish you would see less of him, or at least not go about with him without some other company. Some respectable married couple, or some such thing.”
“I am not really fond of him. I don’t expect I’ll be seeing much of him-we have little in common.”
“If the old Benedict gets out of hand, call on me, and I’ll come galloping ventre à terre on my white steed to rescue you. Promise me, Prudence.”