Lady. Provoking!—Have I not told you a thousand times, never to break in upon me when I am alone?
Mari. Alone, my lady! do you call Mr Vapid nobody, then?
Lady. Suppose I should,—what is that to you?
Mari. Then I have a wrong notion of your nobodies.—I always thought them harmless, unmeaning things; but Mr Vapid's not so very harmless either—are you, Mr Vapid?
Vapid. Indeed, ma'am, I am not.
Mari. There now,—I told you so.—Upon my word, you rely too much on your time of life,—you do indeed. You think, because you're a little the worse for wear, you may trust yourself any where,—but you're mistaken—you're not near so bad as you imagine—nay, I don't flatter, do I, Mr Vapid?
Vapid. Indeed, ma'am, you do not.
Lady. Look ye, miss,—your insolence is not to be borne—you have been the chief cause of all my perplexities.
Mari. Nay, aunt, don't say that.
Lady. No matter,—your behaviour is shameless, and it is high time I exerted the authority of a relation—you are a disgrace to me—to yourself, and your friends—therefore, I am determined to put into execution a scheme I have long thought of.