“Sir Philip,” cried Mr. Seward, “how can you suffer her to dry her own eyes?—you, who sit next her?”
“I dare not dry them for her,” answered he, “because I am not the right man.”
“But if I sat next her,” returned he, “she would not dry them herself.”
“I wish,” cried Dr. Delap, “I had a bottle to put them in; 'tis a thousand pities they should be wasted.”
“There, now,” said Mrs. Thrale, “she looks for all the world as if nothing had happened; for, you know, nothing has happened!”
“Would you cry, Miss Burney,” said Sir Philip, “if we asked you?”
“She can cry, I doubt not,” said Mr. Seward, “on any Proper occasion.”
“But I must know,” said I, “what for.”
I did not say this loud enough for the S. S. to hear me, but if I had, she would not have taken it for the reflection it meant. She seemed, the whole time, totally insensible to the numerous strange and, indeed, impertinent speeches which were made and to be very well satisfied that she was only manifesting a tenderness of disposition, that increased her beauty of countenance. At least, I can put no other construction upon her conduct which was, without exception, the strangest I ever saw. Without any pretence of affliction,—to weep merely because she was bid, though bid in a manner to forbid any one else,—to be in good spirits all the time,—to see the whole company expiring of laughter at her tears, without being at all offended, and, at last, to dry them up, and go on with the same sort of conversation she held before they started!