Lady Fran. I am sure 'tis a delightful one. How can you dislike it, Sir George? You painted Fashionable Life in colours so disgusting, that I thought I hated it; but, on a nearer view, it seems charming. I have hitherto lived in obscurity; 'tis time that I should be a Woman of the World. I long to begin;—my heart pants with expectation and delight!
Mrs. Rack. Come, then; let us begin directly. I am inpatient to introduce you to that Society, which you were born to ornament and charm.
Lady Fran. Adieu! my Love!—We shall meet again at dinner. (Going.)
Sir Geo. Sure, I am in a dream!—Fanny!
Lady Fran. (returning) Sir George?
Sir Geo. Will you go without me?
Mrs. Rack. Will you go without me!—ha! ha! ha! what a pathetic address! Why, sure you would not always be seen side by side, like two beans upon a stalk. Are you afraid to trust Lady Frances with me, Sir?
Sir George. Heaven and earth! with whom can a man trust his wife, in the present state of society? Formerly there were distinctions of character amongst ye: every class of females had its particular description; Grandmothers were pious, Aunts, discreet, Old Maids censorious! but now aunts, grandmothers, girls, and maiden gentlewomen, are all the same creature;—a wrinkle more or less is the sole difference between ye.
Mrs. Rack. That Maiden Gentlewomen have lost their censoriousness, is surely not in your catalogue of grievances.
Sir Geo. Indeed it is—and ranked amongst the most serious grievances.—Things went well, Madam, when the tongues of three or four old Virgins kept all the Wives and Daughters of a parish in awe. They were the Dragons that guarded the Hesperian fruit; and I wonder they have not been oblig'd, by act of parliament, to resume their function.