Doricourt _seated, reading_.
_Doric._ (_flings away the book_) What effect can the morals of
Fourscore have on a mind torn with passion? (_musing_) Is it possible
such a soul as her's, can support itself in so humiliating a situation?
A kept Woman! (_rising_) Well, well--I am glad it is so--I am glad it is
so!
_Enter_ Saville.
_Sav._ What a happy dog you are, Doricourt! I might have been mad, or
beggar'd, or pistol'd myself, without its being mentioned--But you,
forsooth! the whole Female World is concerned for. I reported the state
of your brain to five different women--The lip of the first trembled;
the white bosom of the second heaved a sigh; the third ejaculated, and
turned her eye--to the glass; the fourth blessed herself; and the fifth
said, whilst she pinned a curl, "Well, now, perhaps, he'll be an amusing
Companion; his native dullness was intolerable."
_Doric._ Envy! sheer envy, by the smiles of Hebe!----There are not less
than forty pair of the brightest eyes in town will drop crystals, when
they hear of my misfortune.
_Sav._ Well, but I have news for you:--Poor Hardy is confined to his
bed; they say he is going out of the world by the first post, and he
wants to give you his blessing.
_Doric._ Ill! so ill! I am sorry from my soul. He's a worthy little
Fellow--if he had not the gift of foreseeing so strongly.
_Sav._ Well; you must go and take leave.
_Doric._ What! to act the Lunatic in the dying Man's chamber?
_Sav._ Exactly the thing; and will bring your business to a short issue:
for his last commands must be, That you are not to marry his Daughter.
_Doric._ That's true, by Jupiter!--and yet, hang it, impose upon a poor
fellow at so serious a moment!--I can't do it.
_Sav._ You must, 'faith. I am answerable for your appearance, though it
should be in a strait waistcoat. He knows your situation, and seems the
more desirous of an interview.
_Doric._ I don't like encountering Racket.--She's an arch little devil,
and will discover the cheat.
_Sav._ There's a fellow!--Cheated Ninety-nine Women, and now afraid of
the Hundredth.
_Doric._ And with reason--for that hundredth is a Widow. [_Exeunt._