Hump. Then the painter must make haste. Ha, cousin!
Niece. Hold thy tongue, good savage.
Cler. Madam, I'm generally forced to new-mould every feature, and mend nature's handiwork; but here she has made so finished an original, that I despair of my copies coming up to it.
Aunt. Do you hear that, niece?
Niece. I don't desire you to make graces where you find none.
Cler. To see the difference of the fair sex! I protest to you, madam, my fancy is utterly exhausted with inventing faces for those that sit to me. The first entertainment I generally meet with, are complaints for want of sleep; they never looked so pale in their lives, as when they sit for their pictures. Then so many touches and retouches, when the face is finished. That wrinkle ought not to have been, those eyes are too languid, that colour's too weak, that side-look hides the mole on the left cheek. In short, the whole likeness is struck out—But in you, madam, the highest I can come up to will be but rigid justice.
Hump. A comical dog this!
Aunt. Truly, the gentleman seems to understand his business.
Niece. Sir,[95] if your pencil flatters like your tongue, you are going to draw a picture that won't be at all like me—Sure I have heard that voice somewhere. [Aside.
Cler. Madam, be pleased to place yourself near me; nearer still, madam, here falls the best light. You must know, madam, there are three kinds of airs which the ladies most delight in: There is your haughty, your mild, and your pensive air. The haughty may be expressed with the head a little more erect than ordinary, and the countenance with a certain disdain in it, so as she may appear almost, but not quite, inexorable. This kind of air is generally heightened with a little knitting of the brows—I gave my lady Scornwell the choice of a dozen frowns before she could find one to her liking.