Olivia. How I tremble to approach him!—Might I presume, sir—If I interrupt you—
Croaker. No, child; where I have an affection, it is not a little thing can interrupt me. Affection gets over little things.
Olivia. Sir, you're too kind. I'm sensible how ill I deserve this partiality. Yet Heaven knows there is nothing I would not do to gain it.
Croaker. And you have but too well succeeded, you little hussy, you. With those endearing ways of yours, on my conscience, I could be brought to forgive any thing, unless it were a very great offence indeed.
Olivia. But mine is such an offence—When you know my guilt—Yes, you shall know it, though I feel the greatest pain in the confession.
Croaker. Why then, if it be so very great a pain, you may spare yourself the trouble, for I know every syllable of the matter before you begin.
Olivia. Indeed! Then I'm undone.
Croaker. Ay, miss, you wanted to steal a match, without letting me know it, did you? But I'm not worth being consulted, I suppose, when there's to be a marriage in my own family. No, I'm to have no hand in the disposal of my own children. No, I'm nobody. I'm to be a mere article of family lumber; a piece of crack'd china to be stuck up in a corner.
Olivia. Dear sir, nothing but the dread of your authority could induce us to conceal it from you.
Croaker. No, no, my consequence is no more; I'm as little minded as a dead Russian in winter, just stuck up with a pipe in his mouth till there comes a thaw—It goes to my heart to vex her.