Love lives in every other part,
But there, alas! he dies.”
“My dear Rosa, how could you be so imprudent as to waltz with young Sabretash last night?—Colonel Middleton looked excessively annoyed:” said Mrs. Crafts to her beautiful daughter, as they sat together over their late breakfast.
“I acknowledge the imprudence of the act, mamma; but, really, I could not help it. I am heartily wearied of this perpetual restraint,” was the reply.
“I thought you were too well practised in flirtation, Rosa, to find any character too difficult for you to play.”
“Oh, it is easy enough to suit the taste of everybody, but terribly fatiguing to be obliged to play propriety and prudery so long. However, seven thousand a year is worth some trouble.”
“So, then, you count the lover as nothing?”
“I beg your pardon, mamma; the Colonel is handsome and gentlemanly—un peu passé, it is true, but still a very good-looking appendage to a fine house and a rich equipage.”
“Well, make the most of your time, Rosa; I told you I could only afford three winters in town, and this is the last, you know.”
“Don’t be alarmed, mamma; I will never return to our dull country village again. I will marry anybody before I will bury myself for life in a stupid country place, and I think Colonel Middleton is rapidly approaching Proposition Point.”