Che. For better or for worse, in every sense of the word.
Miss Mea. And I undertake to be equally as rash in accepting you.
Che. We shall gain one point by this blind bargain—we are assured that we love one another for ourselves alone.
Miss Mea. Ah! how charming is that assurance—and how miserable to possess wealth, attracting a train of suitors with not one sincere, disinterested heart amongst them.
Che. Poor as I am, an heiress is my aversion—not that money lowers the worth of woman; but that its worshippers pervert her understanding, harden her heart, and teach her a false estimate of herself.
Miss Mea. Give me love in a cottage.
Che. Or a second floor in London, amongst several layers of lodgers.
Miss Mea. Ah! charming.
Che. Two knocks and a ring for the artist—then to think of painting portraits of people so atrociously ugly, that it is more than one’s poor half guinea is worth not to flatter them. To roam through Battersea or Walworth in search of the picturesque, till a stroke of fortune promotes one to the situation of drawing master to some suburban academy.
Miss Mea. Oh, delightful! to walk twenty miles twice a week for as many pounds per annum. And what must I do? I must not be idle—I’ll commence milliner—trim caps—fabricate flounces, and wait upon fantastical ladies with patterns of the last new toque—and with my needlework and your painting—my industry and your enthusiasm—we shall be happy—I am sure we shall!