Sir Geo. My sweet Creature! How that confession charms me!—Let us begin the Fashion.
Lady Fran. O, impossible! We should not gain a single proselyte; and you can't conceive what spiteful things would be said of us.—At Kensington to-day a Lady met us, whom we saw at Court, when we were presented; she lifted up her hands in amazement!——Bless me! said she to her companion, here's Lady Francis without Sir Hurlo Thrumbo!—My dear Mrs. Racket, consider what an important charge you have! for Heaven's sake take her home again, or some Enchanter on a flying Dragon will descend and carry her off.—Oh, said another, I dare say Lady Frances has a clue at her heel, like the peerless Rosamond:—her tender swain would never have trusted her so far without such a precaution.
Sir Geo. Heav'n and Earth!——How shall Innocence preserve its lustre amidst manners so corrupt!—My dear Fanny, I feel a sentiment for thee at this moment, tenderer than Love—more animated than Passion.——I could weep over that purity, expos'd to the sullying breath of Fashion, and the Ton, in whose latitudinary vortex Chastity herself can scarcely move unspotted.
Enter Gibson.
Gib. Your Honour talk'd, I thought, something about going to the Masquerade?
Sir Geo. Well.
Gib. Isn't it?—hasn't your Honour?—I thought your Honour had forgot to order a Dress.
Lady Fran. Well consider'd, Gibson.—Come, will you be Jew, Turk, or Heretic; a Chinese Emperor, or a Ballad-Singer; a Rake, or a Watchman?
Sir Geo. Oh, neither, my Love; I can't take the trouble to support a character.
Lady Fran. You'll wear a Domino then:—I saw a pink Domino trimm'd with blue at the shop where I bought my Habit.—Would you like it?