Fred. We have been told, that he is to have the honour--
Soph. And then I wish to put a question to you, in whose praise I have heard so much, and for whom I entertain great esteem. I expect you will answer it candidly.
Fred. You do me an honour.
Soph. Nothing of that. We are going to be nearer,--nay, very nearly connected with one another. My happiness is concerned in that question; and so I had rather hear you say, that the confidence I repose in you gives you pleasure, if it really does so.
Fred. Pardon my surprise. I am not myself in this moment. I am masqued in a dress that is not suited to my condition in life. My brother has sent it to me. I mean to return the whole. Now I have told you so, I am more easy; and I am now ready to answer every question you may ask with candour.
Soph. Well then, I will candidly own, that I love and esteem your brother for what he is, for what he yet may become, and for what, I hope, he will yet be willing to become. In one respect only I am quite a stranger to him, and in this respect I must remain so, if--and therefore I have applied to you. Upon what footing, pray, are you with him, you and your father?
Fred. We? Upon a good footing! (After a pause with affected vivacity.) Oh, upon a very good footing!
Soph. I say no.
Fred. We are, indeed.
Soph. And again I say no. His silence made me suspect him. And you, my good girl, if you were quite satisfied with his conduct, quite so, as a sister would be with a good brother, you would, in answer to my question, have told me all that love, gratitude, and benevolence, can inspire in one continued strain. You, therefore, are not, at least not particularly so, upon good terms. Whose fault can that be? I am sure not your good father's: report contradicts that; and, I think, I have partly convinced myself of it. Consequently, it is your brother's fault; and that I do not like.