Frankton. Yes, she is nearly related to his family, and as the style in which they live, corresponds with her former prosperity better than the present ineligible situation of her father does, he has granted them her valuable company, after their repeated solicitations had prov'd the sincerity of their regard.
Loveyet. But how do you account for Mr. Trueman's poverty, since fortune has lately put it so much in Harriet's power to relieve him from it? I dare not think it arises from her want of filial regard; I do not know anything so likely to abate the ardour of my attachment as a knowledge of that; but it is an ungenerous suggestion, unworthy the benignity and tenderness of the gentle Harriet.
Frankton. It is so.—Two things, on the part of the old gentleman, are the cause: his pride will not suffer him to be the subject of a daughter's bounty; and his regard for that daughter's welfare, makes him fearful of being instrumental in impairing her fortune.
Loveyet. I thought the angelic girl could not be ungrateful to the parent of her being; but don't let us tarry—I am already on the wing.
Frankton. You are too sanguine; you must not expect to succeed without a little opposition.
Loveyet. How! what say you? pray be explicit.
Frankton. I will remove your suspense.—There is a Mr. Worthnought, a thing by some people call'd a man, a beau, a fine gentleman, a smart fellow; and by others a coxcomb, a puppy, a baboon and an ass.
Loveyet. And what of him?
Frankton. Nothing; only he visits Miss Harriet frequently.
Loveyet. Hah!—and does she countenance his addresses?