Mrs. D. How? what is my fault here?
Mr. D. Between ourselves, my dear, was not thy maternal pride too much flattered, by seeing a crowd of lovers about your daughter? Had you taken less pleasure in their idle flattery, you would have saved us a great deal of trouble about her.
Mrs. D. And what is the matter now? The girl——
Mr. D. Loves one; why then the rest? Why, by high flown compliments, excite her pride? why, by unmeaning sentiments, corrupt her heart? Speak yourself; is that my fault or yours?
Mrs. D. But let me tell you——
Mr. D. Your caprices always cross our best plans; and when all is entangled and lost, who is to assist? who can?—The husband, the father—happy if you still allow him to do that.
Mrs. D. You speak, as if every thing were lost.
Mr. D. Lost enough.—How often have I spoken against the affected sensibility inculcated by what are called sentimental novels! I provided good books, but in vain. You were proud of her refined feelings; delighted with her ecstatic sensibility. I advised, warned, entreated; but was not heard.
Mrs. D. Nature has given her a susceptible heart—will you call its emotions weakness? then—
Mr. D. I distinguish, very well. Nature has given her a generous heart, sensible to the miseries of mankind.—It was enough; but not for you; and so you have suffered the noblest feelings of an excellent disposition to be perverted by the overstrained and effeminate sensibility of frivolous affectation.