Miss Hard. (After a pause.) But you have not been wholly an observer, I presume, sir: the ladies, I should hope, have employed some part of your addresses.
Marl. (Relapsing into timidity.) Pardon me, madam, I—I—I—as yet have studied—only—to—deserve them.
Miss Hard. And that, some say, is the very worst way to obtain them.
Marl. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to converse only with the more grave and sensible part of the sex.—But I'm afraid I grow tiresome.
Miss Hard. Not at all, sir; there is nothing I like so much as grave conversation myself; I could hear it for ever. Indeed—I have often been surprised how a man of sentiment could ever admire those light airy pleasures, where nothing reaches the heart.
Marl. It's—a disease—of the mind, madam. In the variety of tastes there must be some who, wanting a relish—for—um-a-um.
Miss Hard. I understand you, sir. There must be some, who, wanting a relish for refined pleasures, pretend to despise what they are incapable of tasting.
Marl. My meaning, madam, but infinitely better expressed. And I can't help observing—a—
Miss Hard. (Aside.) Who could ever suppose this fellow impudent upon some occasions? (To him.) You were going to observe, sir——
Marl. I was observing, madam—I protest, madam, I forget what I was going to observe.