SIR W. I did, to the great disgust of my connexions; indeed, my uncle, Lord Plato, has never visited me since my union—has never written, or noticed me in any way.
BLEN. But you found happiness in combining the character of husband and tutor?
SIR W. I surrounded her with masters—an English master, a French master, a music master, a dancing master, a singing master, a philosophical lecturer, and a political economist.
BLEN. And what has been her progress?
SIR W. Her progress has been entirely stationary. I can do nothing with her—she seems to rejoice in her ignorance—and, though I sometimes think she has a capacity for learning, my hopes have been so often disappointed that I now give her up. She’s a female Orson, Sir, though I confess I was once her Valentine.
MARGERY, laughs without.
—There she is.
BLEN. Very merry, at any rate.
SIR W. Oh, she’s merry enough, and good-humoured enough; but, my dear Sir, with my prejudices, with my ideas of refinement, with my delicacy as regards conduct in society, conceive my agony in possessing a wife who is as wild as an unbroken colt, finds a nickname for everybody, and persists in being called by her Christian name of—of——