Barbara. O no, madam, it was after they were gone. Then, who should come out—but you’ll never guess!
Miss Foster. I shall certainly not try.
Barbara. Mr. Menteith himself!
Miss Foster. Why, child, I never heard of him.
Barbara. O madam, not the Beau’s own gentleman?
Miss Foster. Mr. Austin’s servant. No? Is it possible? By that, George Austin must be here.
Barbara. No doubt of that, madam; they’re never far apart. He came out feeling his chin, madam, so; and a packet of letters under his arm, so; and he had the Beau’s own walk to that degree you couldn’t tell his back from his master’s.
Miss Foster. My dear Barbara, you too frequently forget yourself. A young woman in your position must beware of levity.
Barbara. Madam, I know it; but la, what are you to make of me? Look at the time and trouble dear Miss Dorothy was always taking—she that trained up everybody—and see what’s come of it: Barbara Ridley I was, and Barbara Ridley I am; and I don’t do with fashionable ways—I can’t do with them; and indeed, Miss Evelina, I do sometimes wish we were all back again on Edenside, and Mr. Anthony a boy again, and dear Miss Dorothy her old self, galloping the bay mare along the moor, and taking care of all of us as if she was our mother, bless her heart!
Miss Foster. Miss Dorothy herself, child? Well, now you mention it, Tunbridge of late has scarcely seemed to suit her constitution. She falls away, has not a word to throw at a dog, and is ridiculously pale. Well, now Mr. Austin has returned, after six months of infidelity to the dear Wells, we shall all, I hope, be brightened up. Has the mail come?