Mrs. P. [Laughing.] You seem already familiar with the names of every spot on the estate.
Enter Pete.—Arranges breakfast, &c.
George. Just one month ago I quitted Paris. I left that siren city as I would have left a beloved woman.
Mrs. P. No wonder! I dare say you left at least a dozen beloved women there, at the same time.
George. I feel that I departed amid universal and sincere regret. I left my loves and my creditors equally inconsolable.
Mrs. P. George, you are incorrigible. Ah! you remind me so much of your uncle, the judge.
George. Bless his dear old handwriting, it's all I ever saw of him. For ten years his letters came every quarter-day, with a remittance and a word of advice in his formal cavalier style; and then a joke in the postscript, that upset the dignity of the foregoing. Aunt, when he died, two years ago, I read over those letters of his, and if I didn't cry like a baby—
Mrs. P. No, George; say you wept like a man. And so you really kept those foolish letters?
George. Yes; I kept the letters, and squandered the money.
Mrs. P. [Embracing him.] Ah! why were you not my son—you are so like my dear husband.