Sav. Why, she spends him three thousand a year with the ease of a Duchess, and entertains his friends with the grace of a Ninon. Ergo, she is handsome, spirited, and clever. [Doricourt walks about disordered.] In the name of Caprice, what ails you?
Doric. You have hit it—Elle est mon Caprice—The Mistress of Lord George Jennett is my caprice—Oh, insufferable!
Sav. What, you saw her at the Masquerade?
Doric. Saw her, lov'd her, died for her—without knowing her—And now the curse is, I can't hate her.
Sav. Ridiculous enough! All this distress about a Kept Woman, whom any man may have, I dare swear, in a fortnight—They've been jarring some time.
Doric. Have her! The sentiment I have conceived for the Witch is so unaccountable, that, in that line, I cannot bear her idea. Was she a Woman of Honour, for a Wife, I cou'd adore her—but, I really believe, if she should send me an assignation, I should hate her.
Sav. Hey-day! This sounds like Love. What becomes of poor Miss Hardy?
Doric. Her name has given me an ague. Dear Saville, how shall I contrive to make old Hardy cancel the engagements! The moiety of the estate which he will forfeit, shall be his the next moment, by deed of gift.
Sav. Let me see—Can't you get it insinuated that you are a dev'lish wild fellow; that you are an Infidel, and attached to wenching, gaming, and so forth?
Doric. Aye, such a character might have done some good two centuries back.——But who the devil can it frighten now? I believe it must be the mad scheme, at last.—There, will that do for the grin?