Sir Ben. In short, her face resembles a table d'hôte at Spa—where no two guests are of a nation——
Crab. Or a congress at the close of a general war—wherein all the members, even to her eyes, appear to have a different interest, and her nose and chin are the only parties likely to join issue.
Mrs. Can. Ha! ha! ha!
Sir Pet. Mercy on my life!—a person they dine with twice a week!
[Aside.
Mrs. Can. Nay, but I vow you shall not carry the laugh off so—for give me leave to say that Mrs. Ogle——
Sir Pet. Madam, madam, I beg your pardon—there's no stopping these good gentlemen's tongues. But when I tell you, Mrs. Candour, that the lady they are abusing is a particular friend of mine, I hope you'll not take her part.
Lady Sneer. Ha! ha! ha! well said, Sir Peter! but you are a cruel creature—too phlegmatic yourself for a jest, and too peevish to allow wit in others.
Sir Pet. Ah, madam, true wit is more nearly allied to good nature than your ladyship is aware of.
Lady Teas. True, Sir Peter; I believe they are so near akin that they can never be united.
Sir Ben. Or rather, suppose them man and wife, because one seldom sees them together.