JULIA. And what is propriety? A creature of imagination, framed by old maids under the inspiration of green tea.
MRS. F. Stop, stop—
JULIA. Oh, what times were those, when I used to look for a note from Mowbray, in the key hole of the green gate, when I used to read it to six especial confidants, who were all dying with envy; ’till one quarrelled with me about a slice of my last cake, betrayed me to the French teacher, who told the head teacher, who told the governess—and then what an explosion! dragged off hither, without letting me even send my address to De Mowbray. It is a fine thing to be a victim of cruelty at seventeen. And now as you are so fond of giving advice, let me ask you why you are so very severe to that unfortunate little man, your husband?
MRS. F. What you call severity, arises from my strict sense of propriety, of which I am sorry to say, Mr. Facile has not so strict a sense.
JULIA. No! why for all I can see, the poor dear little man does nothing but sit with his mathematical books before him all day, looking just like our geography master. Then he is such a very easy man.
MRS. F. The very thing I dread; he not only lets me have my own way, but every one else too. He is the confidant of all the young ladies in the village; the very servants ask his advice on every single point, and he gives it—is never affronted.
JULIA. Dear, good-natured soul!
MRS. F. There’s that Fanny Pepper has innumerable points to consult him upon—a forward slut, who apes me in everything. If I wear ringlets, she wears ringlets—makes her caps like mine. Now how do I know what she may ask him—and if he can refuse nothing—think of that!
Enter EUCLID, reading, R. H.
EUCLID. “X plus Y equal to—” Ah, my dear, what are you doing?