“Petcalf!”
“Oh! Petcalf is my abhorrence—”
“There is the thing! He was speaking to your father seriously about you, and your father sounded me: I said you would never agree, and he was quite displeased—that and Mrs. Sparkes’ bill completely overset him. Now, if you had your wish, Georgiana—what would be your taste, child?”
“My wish! My taste!—Oh! that would be for a delicate, delicate, soft, sentimental blue satin, with silver fringe, looped with pearl, for my first act; and in my last—”
“Two dresses! Oh! you extravagant! out of all possibility.”
“I am only wishing, telling you my taste, dear mamma. You know there must be a change of dress, in the last act, for Zara’s nuptials—now for my wedding dress, mamma, my taste would be
‘Shine out, appear, be found, my lovely Zara,’
in bridal white and silver. You know, ma’am, I am only supposing.”
“Well then, supposition for supposition,” replied Mrs. Falconer: “supposing I let your father hope that you are not so decided to abhor poor Petcalf—”
“Oh! dear mamma, I am so persecuted about that Petcalf! and compared with Count Altenberg, my father must be blind, or think me an idiot.”