Bar. Now for a fresh plague. Now am I to be tormented by some chattering old ugly hag, till I am stunned with her noise and officious hospitality. Oh, patience! what a virtue art thou!
Enter Mrs. Haller, with a becoming curtsey. Baron rises, and returns a bow, in confusion.
[Aside.] No, old she is not. [Casts another glance at her.] No, by Jove, nor ugly.
Mrs. H. I rejoice, my lord, in thus becoming acquainted with the brother of my benefactress.
Bar. Madam, that title shall be doubly valuable to me, since it gives me an introduction equally to be rejoiced at.
Mrs. H. [Without attending to the compliment.] This lovely weather, then, has enticed the Count from the city?
Bar. Not exactly that. You know him. Sunshine or clouds are to him alike, as long as eternal summer reigns in his own heart and family.
Mrs. H. The Count possesses a most cheerful and amiable philosophy. Ever in the same happy humour; ever enjoying each minute of his life. But you must confess, my lord, that he is a favourite child of fortune, and has much to be grateful to her for. Not merely because she has given him birth and riches, but for a native sweetness of temper, never to be acquired; and a graceful suavity of manners, whose school must be the mind. And, need I enumerate among fortune's favours, the hand and affections of your accomplished sister?
Bar. [More and more struck as her understanding opens upon him.] True, madam. My good easy brother, too, seems fully sensible of his happiness, and is resolved to retain it. He has quitted the service to live here. I am yet afraid he may soon grow weary of Wintersen and retirement.
Mrs. H. I should trust not. They, who bear a cheerful and unreproaching conscience into solitude, surely must increase the measure of their own enjoyments. They quit the poor, precarious, the dependent pleasures, which they borrowed from the world, to draw a real bliss from that exhaustless source of true delight, the fountain of a pure unsullied heart.