Flut. Oh, just which you please, Sir George; so you don't make me a Lord Mayor. Ah, Mrs. Racket!——Lady Frances, your most obedient; you look—now hang me, if that's not provoking!—had your gown been of another colour, I would have said the prettiest thing you ever heard in your life.
Miss Ogle. Pray give it us.
Flut. I was yesterday at Mrs. Bloomer's. She was dress'd all in green; no other colour to be seen but that of her face and bosom. So says I, My dear Mrs. Bloomer! you look like a Carnation, just bursting from its pod.
Sir Geo. And what said her Husband?
Flut. Her Husband! Why, her Husband laugh'd, and said a Cucumber would have been a happier simile.
Sir Geo. But there are Husbands, Sir, who would rather have corrected than amended your comparison; I, for instance, should consider a man's complimenting my Wife as an impertinence.
Flut. Why, what harm can there be in compliments? Sure they are not infectious; and, if they were, you, Sir George, of all people breathing, have reason to be satisfied about your Lady's attachment; every body talks of it: that little Bird there, that she killed out of jealousy, the most extraordinary instance of affection, that ever was given.
Lady Fran. I kill a Bird through jealousy!—Heavens! Mr. Flutter, how can you impute such a cruelty to me?
Sir Geo. I could have forgiven you, if you had.
Flut. Oh, what a blundering Fool!—No, no—now I remember—'twas your Bird, Lady Frances—that's it; your Bullfinch, which Sir George, in one of the refinements of his passion, sent into the wide world to seek its fortune.—He took it for a Knight in disguise.