Fath. And how many times more will make twenty?

Thee. Twice, by the same rule.

Fath. Thou hast worked with thy pencil and slate, Master Thomas!
Well, ten times, as I said, took I back the gown for the trimmings;
and was she content after all? I warrant you no, or my ears did not
pay for it. She wished, she said, that the slattern sempstress had
not touched the gown, for nought had she done but botched it. Now
what think you had the sempstress done to the gown?

Thos. To surmise that, I must be learned in the sempstress's art.

Fath. The sempstress's art! Thou hast hit it! Oh, the sweet
sempstress! the excellent sempstress! Mistress of her scissors and
needles, which are pointless and edgeless to her art! The
sempstress had done nothing to the gown; yet raves and storms my
mistress at her for having botched it in the making and mending; and
orders her straight to make another one, which home the sempstress
brings on Tuesday last.

Thos. And found thy fair mistress as many faults with that?

Fath. Not one! She finds it a very pattern of a gown! A well-
sitting flounce! The sleeves a fit--the tucker a fit--the trimmings
her fancy to a T--ha! ha! ha! and she praised the sempstress--ha!
ha! ha! and she smiles at me, and I smile--ha! ha! ha! and the
sempstress smiles--ha! ha! ha! Now, why did the sempstress smile?

Thos. That she had succeeded so well in her art.