Olivia. But mayn't she write? mayn't her aunt write?
Leont. Her aunt scarce ever writes, and all my sister's letters are directed to me.
Olivia. But won't your refusing Miss Richland, for whom you know the old gentleman intends you, create a suspicion?
Leont. There, there's my masterstroke. I have resolved not to refuse her; nay, an hour hence I have consented to go with my father, to make her an offer of my heart and fortune.
Olivia. Your heart and fortune!
Leont. Don't be alarmed, my dearest. Can Olivia think so meanly of my honour, or my love, as to suppose I could ever hope for happiness from any but her? No, my Olivia, neither the force, nor permit me to add, the delicacy of my passion, leave any room to suspect me. I only offer Miss Richland a heart, I am convinced she will refuse; as I am confident, that without knowing it, her affections are fixed upon Mr. Honeywood.
Olivia. Mr. Honeywood! You'll excuse my apprehensions; but when your merits come to be put in the balance—
Leont. You view them with too much partiality. However, by making this offer, I show a seeming compliance with my father's commands; and perhaps, upon her refusal, I may have his consent to choose for myself.
Olivia. Well, I submit. And, yet my Leontine, I own, I shall envy her, even your pretended addresses. I consider every look, every expression of your esteem, as due only to me. This is folly, perhaps: I allow it; but it is natural to suppose, that merit which has made an impression on one's own heart, may be powerful over that of another.
Leont. Don't, my life's treasure, don't let us make imaginary evils, when you know we have so many real ones to encounter. At worst, you know, if Miss Richland should consent, or my father refuse his pardon, it can but end in a trip to Scotland; and——