PHOEBE. What can you mean?
VALENTINE. She who was never at a ball! (Checking himself humorously.) But I must not tell you, it might hurt you.
PHOEBE. Tell me.
VALENTINE (gaily). Then on your own head be the blame. It is you who have made me love her, Miss Livvy.
PHOEBE. Sir?
VALENTINE. Yes, it is odd, and yet very simple. You who so resembled her as she was! for an hour, ma'am, you bewitched me; yes, I confess it, but 'twas only for an hour. How like, I cried at first, but soon it was, how unlike. There was almost nothing she would have said that you said; you did so much that she would have scorned to do. But I must not say these things to you!
PHOEBE. I ask it of you, Captain Brown.
VALENTINE. Well! Miss Phoebe's 'lady-likeness,' on which she set such store that I used to make merry of the word—I gradually perceived that it is a woman's most beautiful garment, and the casket which contains all the adorable qualities that go to the making of a perfect female. When Miss Livvy rolled her eyes—ah!
(He stops apologetically.)
PHOEBE. Proceed, sir.