Frank. She writes, you see, that she has abruptly left her father—and I learn, by the messenger, that she is now in a miserable, retired house, on the neighbouring heath.—That mustn't deter you from going.
Shuff. Me? Oh, dear no—I'm used to it. I don't care how retired the house is.
Frank. Come down to my father to breakfast. I will tell you afterwards all I wish you to execute.—Oh, Tom! this business has unhinged me for society. Rigid morality, after all, is the best coat of mail for the conscience.
Shuff. Our ancestors, who wore mail, admired it amazingly; but to mix in the gay world, with their rigid morality, would be as singular as stalking into a drawing-room in their armour:—for dissipation is now the fashionable habit, with which, like a brown coat, a man goes into company, to avoid being stared at.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
An Apartment in Job Thornberry's House.
Enter Job Thornberry, in a Night Gown, and Bur.
Bur. Don't take on so—don't you, now! pray, listen to reason.
Job. I won't.