Ennui. I've an idea—I'm very sorry—in fact—how can I please her?
Mari. There's the difficulty—let me see—the sort of man she prefers is—you know Sir Harry Hustle?—a man all activity and confidence!—who does every thing from fashion, and glories in confessing it.
Ennui. Sir Harry Hustle?—in fact—he's a modern blood of fashion.
Mari. I know—that's the reason she likes him, and you must become the same, if you wish to win her affection—a new dress—bold looks—a few oaths, and much swaggering, effects the business. [Ennui puts himself in attitudes.] Ay, that's right, you are the very man already.
Ennui. I'm a lad of fashion!—eh, dam'me!—I've an idea—I shall fall asleep in the midst of it.
Mari. No, no;—go about it directly—see Sir Harry Hustle, and study your conversation before hand—but remember Louisa is so fond of fashion, that you can't boast too much of its vices and absurdities.
Ennui. If virtue was the fashion, I should be virtuous!—I should, dam'me!
Mari. Ay, that's the very thing—well;—good bye, Mr Ennui—success attend you—mind you talk enough.
Ennui. Talk!—I'll talk till I fall asleep!—I will! dam'me!
[Exit, swaggering.—Marianne laughing.