[Exit Letitia.
Enter Doricourt (not seeing Mrs. Racket.)
Doric. So! [Looking at a Picture.] this is my mistress, I presume.—Ma foi! the painter has hit her off.—The downcast eye—the blushing cheek—timid—apprehensive—bashful.—A tear and a prayer-book would have made her La Bella Magdalena.—
| Give me a woman in whose touching mien A mind, a soul, a polish'd art is seen; Whose motion speaks, whose poignant air can move. Such are the darts to wound with endless love. |
Mrs. Rack. Is that an impromptu? [Touching him on the shoulder with her fan.]
Doric. (starting.) Madam!—[Aside.] Finely caught!—Not absolutely—it struck me during the dessert, as a motto for your picture.
Mrs. Rack. Gallantly turn'd! I perceive, however, Miss Hardy's charms have made no violent impression on you.—And who can wonder?—the poor girl's defects are so obvious.
Doric. Defects!
Mrs. Rack. Merely those of education.—Her father's indulgence ruin'd her.—Mauvaise honte—conceit and ignorance—all unite in the Lady you are to marry.
Doric. Marry!—I marry such a woman!—Your picture, I hope, is overcharged.—I marry mauvaise honte, pertness and ignorance!