Hast. Indeed! such a head in a side-box, at the play-house, would draw as many gazers, as my lady Mayoress at a city ball.
Mrs. Hard. I vow, since inoculation began, there is no such thing to be seen as a plain woman; so one must dress a little particular, or one may escape in the crowd.
Hast. But that can never be your case, madam, in any dress.
Bowing.
Hastings.—"Extremely elegant and
dégagée, upon my word, madam."—p. 344.
Mrs. Hard. Yet what signifies my dressing when I have such a piece of antiquity by my side as Mr. Hardcastle? all I can say will not argue down a single button from his clothes. I have often wanted him to throw off his great flaxen wig, and where he was bald, to plaster it over, like my lord Pately, with powder.
Hast. You are right, madam; for as, among the ladies, there are none ugly, so, among the men, there are none old.
Mrs. Hard. But what do you think his answer was? Why, with his usual gothic vivacity, he said, I only wanted him to throw off his wig, to convert it into a tête for my own wearing.
Hast. Intolerable! At your age you may wear what you please, and it must become you.