Lewis. Another bright angel then delighted to have an attendant to hand her to her carriage, to accompany her wherever she thought proper; there again I was—but I tire you with all these melancholy instances of my delusion.
Augusta. If all this be true, I pity you.
Lewis. Once, indeed, I got a dangerous illness by my folly; but it cured me effectually.
Augusta. And now you chuse the way of retaliation?
Lewis. Why not?
Augusta. But did you ever reflect how many an innocent breast you robbed of its peace?
Lewis. I cannot reproach myself with that.
Augusta. How many you have plunged in sorrow?
Lewis [goodnaturedly]. Not a single one. As for protestations of love, extravagant praises of their beauty, and so forth, they are mere words of course; ladies know that very well from their childhood—a woman of sense never trusts them.
Augusta. Yet how unfortunate must she be, who loves sincerely!