Sir Philip. Take him from my sight! Why am I not obeyed?
Miss B. Henry, if you wish my hate should not accompany my father's, instantly begone.
Henry. Oh, pity me!
[Exit.
[Miss Blandford looks after him—Sir Philip, exhausted, leans on his servants.
Sir Philip. Supported by my servants! I thought I had a daughter!
Miss B. [Running to him.] O you have, my father! one that loves you better than her life!
Sir Philip. [To Servant.] Leave us. [Exit Servant. Emma, if you feel, as I fear you do, love for that youth—mark my words! When the dove wooes for its mate the ravenous kite; when nature's fixed antipathies mingle in sweet concord, then, and not till then, hope to be united.
Miss B. O Heaven!
Sir Philip. Have you not promised me the disposal of your hand?