You are impertinent, Sir Charles—Excuse me—You are impertinent.
I do excuse you, Lady Beauchamp: and the rather, as I am sure you do not think me so. Your freedom is a mark of your favour; and I thank you for it.
You treat me as a child, sir—
I treat all angry people as children: I love to humour them. Indeed,
Lady Beauchamp, you must not be angry with me. Can I be mistaken? Don't
I see in your aspect the woman of sense and reason?—I never blame a lady
for her humoursomeness, so much as, in my mind, I blame her mother.
Sir! said she. I smiled. She bit her lip, to avoid returning a smile.
Her character, my dear friend, is not, you know, that of an ill-tempered woman, though haughty, and a lover of power.
I have heard much of you, Sir Charles Grandison: but I am quite mistaken in you: I expected to see a grave formal young man, his prim mouth set in plaits: But you are a joker; and a free man; a very free man, I do assure you.
I would be thought decently free, madam; but not impertinent. I see with pleasure a returning smile. O that ladies knew how much smiles become their features!—Very few causes can justify a woman's anger—Your sex, madam, was given to delight, not to torment us.
Torment you, sir!—Pray, has Sir Harry—
Sir Harry cannot look pleased, when his lady is dis-pleased: I saw that you were, madam, the moment I beheld you. I hope I am not an unwelcome visitor to Sir Harry for one hour, (I intend to stay no longer,) that he received me with so disturbed a countenance, and has now withdrawn himself, as if to avoid me.