Lord G. My dear Clifford, urge me no more. How can a man of your liberality of sentiment descend to be the advocate of my uncle's family avarice?
Cliff. My lord, you do not live for yourself. You have an ancient name and title to support.
Lord G. Preposterous policy! Whenever the father builds, games, or electioneers, the heir and title roust go to market. Oh, the happy families Sir Clement Flint will enumerate, where this practice has prevailed for centuries; and the estate been improved in every generation, though specifically spent by each individual!
Cliff. But you thought with him a month ago, and wrote with transport of the match—"Whenever I think of Miss Alscrip, visions of equipage and splendour, villas and hotels, the delights of independence and profuseness, dance in my imagination."
Lord G. It is true, I was that dissipated, fashionable wretch.
Cliff. Come, this reserve betrays a consciousness of having acted wrong: You would not hide what would give me pleasure: But I'll not be officious.
Lord G. Hear me without severity, and I'll tell you all. Such a woman, such an assemblage of all that's lovely in the sex!——
Cliff. Well, but—the who, the how, the where?
Lord G. I met her walking, and alone; and, indeed, so humbly circumstanced as to carry a parcel in her own hand.