“And run up bills at the mantua-makers,” rejoined the Bostonian.
“The prettiest women in the United States are in Baltimore,” observed the Baltimorian.
“Say rather girls,” interrupted the Gallo-American; “I have never seen a handsome woman in America yet: if there were one, you would not see her in society; she would stay at home nursing her babies.”
“And send her young daughters into company for our boys to dance with.”
“And dance they must, because they can’t talk.”
“What would you have a girl of sixteen talk of, pray?”
“Nothing that I care for. When I was in Paris, I only talked to married women. They alone understand the most delicate allusions, listen with dignity to our affecting tales, and are grateful for the slightest attention, without expecting an immediate proposal and saddling themselves on you for life.”
“That would not do in this country,” said the Bostonian with great earnestness; “our women are brought up in a different manner.”
“Why, upon my word!” exclaimed the Philadelphian with a horse-laugh, “our Boston friend talks to us as gravely as a New England schoolmaster. If you don’t leave off some of these ridiculous Yankee notions, you’ll never cut a figure in the fashionable world. But you must excuse him, gentlemen; a certain puritanical air always sticks to these ‘Boston folks’ even after they have turned rakes.”
“Oh! he would get over that too, quick enough,” cried the lover of France, “if he were to stay a year or two in Paris. But, upon my honour! I cannot stay for breakfast; Miss L*** would never speak to me again.”