Frankton. Did you suppose he would object to the alliance then?
Loveyet. I did not know,—my hope was only founded on the probability of his approving it.
Frankton. Well, I can now inform you that your hope has a better basis to rest on, and that there is as fair a prospect of its being shortly swallowed up in fruition as ever Cupid and Hymen presented to a happy mortal's view.—For your farther comfort, I have the pleasure to acquaint you, that Mr. Trueman is equally fond of the match.
Loveyet. Better and better—my dear George! You are the best of friends,—my happy genius! My very guardian angel!
Frankton. Well said, Heroics—come, spout away.
Loveyet. Yes, I am happy, very happy, indeed: Moralists disparage this world too much,—there is such a thing as happiness under the sun,—I feel it now most irrefragably,—here it vibrates in a most extatic manner.
Frankton. Why, you are positively the arrantest love-sick swain that ever had recourse to a philter.
Loveyet. Profane heretic in love! Did not you extol the two Seraphims just now in the same generous language? But you have never experienced the blissful transition from doubt and solicitude to certainty and peace, as I do now.
Frankton. How do you know that?
Loveyet. I only conjecture so—Did you ever feel the same transports I do?