Sav. And has Miss Hardy nothing of this?
Doric. If she has, she was pleased to keep it to herself. I was in the room half an hour before I could catch the colour of her eyes; and every attempt to draw her into conversation occasioned so cruel an embarrassment, that I was reduced to the necessity of news, French fleets, and Spanish captures, with her father.
Sav. So Miss Hardy, with only beauty, modesty, and merit, is doom'd to the arms of a husband who will despise her.
Doric. You are unjust. Though she has not inspir'd me with violent passion, my honour secures her felicity.
Sav. Come, come, Doricourt, you know very well that when the honour of a husband is locum-tenens for his heart, his wife must be as indifferent as himself, if she is not unhappy.
Doric. Pho! never moralise without spectacles. But, as we are upon the tender subject, how did you bear Touchwood's carrying Lady Frances?
Sav. You know I never look'd up to her with hope, and Sir George is every way worthy of her.
Doric. A la mode Angloise, a philosopher even in love.
Sav. Come, I detain you—you seem dress'd at all points, and of course have an engagement.
Doric. To St. James's. I dine at Hardy's, and accompany them to the masquerade in the evening: but breakfast with me to-morrow, and we'll talk of our old companions; for I swear to you, Saville, the air of the Continent has not effaced one youthful prejudice or attachment.