Worthnought. Very true, madam:—by persons of easy notions of virtue, indeed, it would be considered a trifling faux pas, as the French call it; a perfect bagatelle; or, at most, a superficial act of incontinency; but to those who have such rigid notions of virtue as Miss Cantwell, for example, or Miss Herald, or their humble servant; it appears quite another thing, quite another thing, ladies:—though it is one of my foibles;—I own it is a fault to be so intalerably nice about the affairs of women; but it is a laudable imperfection, if I may be allowed the phrase;—it is erring on the safe side, for women's affairs are delicate things to meddle with, ladies.
Cantwell. You are perfectly in the right, Mr. Worthnought, but one can't help speaking up for the honour of one's sex, you know.
Worthnought. Very true, madam:—to make the matter still worse, ladies, Mr. Loveyet is just arrived from abroad to be married to her; and the old gentleman is going to ally him immediately to Miss Maria Airy in consequence of it.
Herald. I am glad of that, however;—I will forgive Miss Trueman her failing, if that is the case, for then I shall have a better chance to gain Frankton.
[Aside.
Worthnought. But this is entre nous, ladies.—[Looks at his watch.] Hah,—the tête-à-tête!—Ladies, I have the hanor to be your slave.
[Going.
Cantwell. You are positively the greatest lady's man, Mr. Worthnought,—
Worthnought. I am proud of your compliment, madam; and I wish Miss Tabitha could consider me such, from her own experience; it would be conferring the highest hanor on her slave, 'pan hanor.
Cantwell. Oh, sir,—your politeness quite confuses me.