How am I running on!—My spirits are flutter'd:—I begin where I should end, and end where I should begin.—Behold me, dearest Madam, just parted from my Hampshire friends,—silent and in tears, plac'd by the side of my miscreant conductor.—You know, my Lady, this specious man can make himself vastly entertaining: he strove to render his conversation particularly so, on our first setting out.
We had travell'd several stages without varying the subject, which was that of our intended tour, when I said I hop'd it would conquer Mrs. Smith's melancholy for the death of her brother.—How did his answer change him in a moment from the most agreeable to the most disgustful of his sex!
My wife, Miss Warley, with a leer that made him look dreadful, wants your charming sprightliness:—it is a curs'd thing to be connected with a gloomy woman:—
Gloomy, Sir! casting at him a look of disdain; do you call mildness, complacency, and evenness of temper, gloomy?
She is much altered, Madam;—is grown old and peevish;—her health is bad;—she cannot live long.
Mrs. Smith can never be peevish, Sir;—and as to her age, I thought it pretty near your own.
No, no, Madam, you are quite mistaken; I am at least five years younger.
Five years, Sir! what are five years at your time of life!
Come, come, Miss Warley, laying his huge paw on my hand, and in a tone of voice that shew'd him heartily nettled;—even at my time of life I can admire a beautiful young Lady.—If my wife should die,—old as I am—men older than myself, with half my estate, have married some of the finest women in the kingdom.
Very likely, Sir;—but then it is to be suppos'd the characters of such men have been particularly amiable,—No man or woman of honour can esteem another whose principles are doubtful.