Jerome. She angry! Oh you don't know her yet—When you have been a day or two with her you'll find she is never angry—She is the best tempered creature—and were it not for her aversion to us men, she would not have a fault.
Flora. Do you consider that as a fault, Mr. Jerome?
Jerome. To be sure I do—For my part, I think she had much better be too fond of us, as the rest of her sex are.
Flora. Pray, Mr. Jerome, what caused her aversion to the men?
Jerome. I'll tell you, Flora, if it wo'nt make you melancholy.
Flora. Oh, no, Mr. Jerome—I like a melancholy story—I like dearly to cry, when it is not on my own account.
Jerome. Well then—When my Lady was only fifteen she fell deep in love with a fine handsome young fellow, inferior to her both in rank and fortune; but my good old Lord, her father, who doated upon her, was afraid a disappointment might break her heart, and so consented to her having him; but he proved so bad a husband that my poor old Master soon died with grief.
Flora. Poor man!
Jerome. Don't cry yet, there's something worse to come—My Lady, on this, took such a dislike to her husband, that he died of grief too.
Flora. Indeed, Mr. Jerome, this is very moving. (cries.)