Rosalind. I do not see the pleasure of rubbing red, and blue, and green paint on little plates; and dabbling in tumblers of water with camel's-hair pencils, and daubing colours on white paper.
Mrs. Mortlake. You must not play on the piano, nor on the harp.
Rosalind. Well! What sense is there in pressing down your fingers first on bits of ivory, and then on bits of ebony; and staring at crotchets and quavers all the time? or where is the use of twanging and jerking the strings of a harp?
Mrs. Mortlake. You must not work in your garden.
Rosalind. So much the better. Then I shall neither dirty my hands with pulling up the weeds, nor splash my feet with the water-pot.
Mrs. Mortlake. You may sleep as much as you please; but you must not rise before nine o'clock.
Rosalind. O, how delightful, not to be obliged to jump out of bed at daylight! Dearest Mrs. Mortlake, if I could have a month of ease and comfort, instead of only a week—-
Mrs. Mortlake. Well,—if at the end of the week you still desire it, perhaps I may protract the indulgence to a longer period.
Rosalind. Dear Mrs. Mortlake, how kind you are. When shall my happiness begin? As to-morrow is Saturday, when we always have a half holiday, and next day Sunday, when we go to the city to attend church, I think, notwithstanding my impatience, I would rather commence my week of felicity regularly on Monday morning.
Mrs. Mortlake. Very well, then. On Monday morning let it be.