Dis. I had no idea that a restless night, by myself, could have made me think so favourably of Mrs. Dismal.
Lynx. Ah, my friends—absence, like death, leads us to dwell on the better qualities of those that are away.
Cod. And the heart that can then but refer to faults, is one of which we ought to be ashamed. If the second Mrs. Coddle had but consulted my comforts a little more than she did, and not look’d for raptures and passions in one, who had them not in his nature—she would have been a divinity.
Young. My wife’s great fault is her perpetual proneness for contradiction; were she to qualify her opposition, by presuming that I mistake, or by merely thinking that I am wrong, I should be satisfied, but her flat contradictions on every subject are unbearable, and I won’t put up with it; she sometimes makes me quite furious, zounds!
Dis. My wife’s great defect is her want of cheerfulness; and expecting me every moment to be petting her like a Dutch pug. I can’t fondle, and be continually my dearing; my amiable moments are periodical.
Cod. We are all wretched creatures; and I’m the most wretched among you; you may be reconciled some day or other, but for me—I am without hope.—(A knocking at the door, L. H.)—Hush!—who’s there?—(Going to the door.)
Dove. (Without.)—It’s me.
Cod. Who?
Dove. Mr. H. Dove.
Cod. You can’t come in.