Becky Sharp Page #3

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Bless you, Missy. I am Sir Pitt Crawley

and these are my children.

Quiet! Quiet!

Quiet!

That's another son.

As worthless a scoundrel as ever wore

the King's uniform.

Then you'll not be staying, eh?

Pucks take it...

Why, you're the prettiest governess I've ever

had my hands on.

Sir Pitt, as I was saying, although I haven't had

enough experience for so exacting a position,

I should like to accept.

These dear little children have completely

won my heart.

You'll live to regret it.

But I'm glad.

My name is Becky, darlings.

Would you like me to read you a pretty story?

No!

And here I bring you "The Blind Washerwoman of Moorefield".

A moral and instructive volume.

Mr. Pitt, it's kind of you, but I haven't yet finished

"Thrump's Legacy" that you brought me last week.

Read them both, then, read them both.

Works by pious authors are soothing to the soul.

What was that about the soul, Pitt?

Let me hear it too.

You know how your sermons always affect me.

You are too far sunk in the morass of iniquity,

my beloved brother, for my sermons.

I hope to see you later, Miss Rebecca.

Now I must work on my speech

for the questionable Aid Society.

Questionable Aid Society.

How on earth do you stand him, Becky?

What choice have I?

I must watch the side my bread is buttered on.

Why bread when that little mouth

was made for cake and kisses?

I know the two of you would willingly supply the second.

Oh, not enough.

Not half so nourishing as bread.

On the contrary. Every kiss counts, Becky.

I'm returning to London tomorrow.

Regimental duty.

London is such a large town.

So many willing lips to please a soldier.

Yes, but none like yours.

Becky, these pretty little hands,

who will hold them when I'm gone?

They'll be very busy.

Washing Violet, combing Rose,

mending Sir Pitt's shirts.

Oh, blasted, you shouldn't be doing all that.

Becky, if I were to ask you to come to London...

to find a position for you.

I've tried all that

No, Queen's Crawley is my haven.

Oh, but there must be something.

Some... Becky, wait!

I have an aunt in London.

Young and pretty, of course.

No, old and a spinster, but rich.

I can persuade her that she shouldn't stay alone.

That she needs a companion.

And I need a protector, Rawdon.

Becky!

Becky Sharp!

Can't you hear me? Where is that girl?

Sharp! Sharp! Sharp!

Miss Crawley, mam. Are you perhaps calling

Miss Sharp, mam?

No! I'm calling on heaven

to help me preserve me calm!

Where is me drops? Where is me jelly?

Am I to sit here and be murdered with inattention?

Where in blazes is that misbegotten girl?

Miss Crawley, mam,

if I may venture the opinion, mam...

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