Miss Sna. In elegance of costume, Mr. Boss, you completely bear away the palm.
Boss. My taste in the matter, is, I flatter myself, perfect—indeed with me it is a furor.
Miss Sky. Oh, sir, I am afraid you admire yourself too much, to bestow a thought of regard on one of us poor women.
Boss. I shall never marry till I discover perfection.
Miss Sky. You will find grey hairs hanging over your temples, before you obtain that object of your search.
Boss. (C.) Then I’ll die a bachelor!
Miss Sky. (C.) And, like the swan, sing your own elegy.
Miss Sna. (L.) A young man of Mr. Boss’s figure, must in time strike those who would think it little trouble to conquer the faults of habit and nature, and make herself as near, what he may consider to be perfection, as possible.
Boss. Why, yes, my figure I think is perfect—breadth of shoulders, smallness of waist, curve of back, flow of hip, and tolerable height, are the materiel that go towards forming a good figure, and which materiel, I flatter myself, I possess. (Crosses to L.)