Miss Hard. I agree with you entirely; a want of courage upon some occasions, assumes the appearance of ignorance, and betrays us when we most want to excel. I beg you'll proceed.
Marl. Yes, madam; morally speaking, madam—But I see Miss Neville, expecting us in the next room. I would not intrude for the world.
Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I never was more agreeably entertained in all my life. Pray go on.
Marl. Yes, madam; I was—But she beckons us to join her. Madam, shall I do myself the honour to attend you?
Miss Hard. Well then, I'll follow.
Marl. (Aside.) This pretty smooth dialogue has done for me.
Exit.
Miss Hardcastle, sola.
Miss Hard. Ha! ha! ha! Was there ever such a sober sentimental interview? I'm certain he scarce looked in my face the whole time. Yet the fellow, but for his unaccountable bashfulness, is pretty well too. He has good sense; but then, so buried in his fears, that it fatigues one more than ignorance. If I could teach him a little confidence, it would be doing somebody, that I know of, a piece of service. But who is that somebody?—that, faith, is a question I can scarce answer.
Exit.