MRS. SHORT. (with energy, looking up) Think of it: why think that I have been persecuted with the attentions of a coxcomb! whom I have never encouraged by word or look!
MRS. SWEET. Persecuted! poor martyr!
MRS. SHORT. How could I for an instant imagine that he would presume to take such a liberty.
MRS. SWEET. Come now, you had better make a clean breast of it—this has been one of your quiet flirtations.
MRS. SHORT. Flirtations! If the man would persist in his attentions how could I help it? You know I could not be absolutely rude to him.
MRS. SWEET. (bantering her, and holding up the letter) Is this one of his attentions?
MRS. SHORT. No; the most extravagant height of consummate impudence; and if I were not frightened out of my senses I should go into fits of laughter.
MRS. SWEET. Come, come, Mrs. Demure; I’ll have no more of this—I shall take the liberty of destroying this delectable note. (tearing it to pieces, and putting them into her pocket)
MRS. SHORT. Don’t scold me, for if I have been silly and a little indiscreet—which mind I don’t confess—I have been sufficiently punished for it, for I haven’t had a minute’s peace of mind ever since we have been down here, and, after all, is there no excuse for me—see how I am treated!—he starts at the sound of a rat, runs away from the bark of a dog, and couldn’t be induced to mount a horse if his life depended on it, but he is not afraid to coerce and bully a poor defenceless wife. (wiping away a tear) I am sure if my husband would only be a twentieth part as kind to me as dear Mr. Sweet is to you I wouldn’t give him a moment’s vexation for the world.