Enter Marianne, and Letty, from the House.
Mari. But I tell you I will come out—I didn't come to Bath to be confined, nor I won't—I hate all their company, but sweet Miss Courtney's.
Letty. I declare, Miss Marianne, you grow worse and worse every day, your country manners will be the ruin of you.
Mari. Don't you talk about that, Letty—It was a shame to bring me up in the country—if I had been properly taken care of, I might have done great things—I might have married the poet I danced with at the ball—But it's all over now.—I shall never get a husband, and, what's worse, my aunt did it on purpose.—She ruined me, Letty, that nobody else might.
Letty. How you talk!—I hope Miss Courtney hasn't taught you all this?
Mari. No,—she's a dear creature,—she has taught me many things; but nothing improper, I'm sure.
Letty. Pray, has she taught you why she never plays any tune but the one we heard just now?
Mari. Yes—and if you'll keep it a secret, I'll tell you, Letty; Mr Harry Neville taught it her last summer,—and now she is always playing it, because it puts her in mind of the dear man;—when it is ended, don't you observe how she sighs from the bottom of her dear little heart?
Letty. Why, I thought they had quarrelled?
Mari. So they have—she won't see him, and I believe my aunt, Lady Waitfor't, has been the occasion of it;—poor Mr Neville!—I wish I could assist him, for indeed, Letty, I always pity any body that is crossed in love—it may be one's own case one day or other, you know.