Miss Foster. I am afraid that even at your age George Austin held a very different position from the distinguished Anthony Musgrave.
Anthony. Come, ma’am, I take that unkindly. Of course I know what you’re at: of course the old pût cut no end of a dash with the Duchess.
Miss Foster. My dear child, I was thinking of no such thing; that was immoral.
Anthony. Then you mean that affair at Brighton: when he cut the Prince about Perdita Robinson.
Miss Foster. No, I had forgotten it.
Anthony. O, well, I know—that duel! But look here, Aunt Evelina, I don’t think you’d be much gratified after all if I were to be broke for killing my commanding officer about a quarrel at cards.
Dorothy. Nobody asks you, Anthony, to imitate Mr. Austin. I trust you will set yourself a better model. But you may choose a worse. With all his faults, and all his enemies, Mr. Austin is a pattern gentleman: You would not ask a man to be braver, and there are few so generous. I cannot bear to hear him called in fault by one so young. Better judges, dear, are better pleased.
Anthony. Hey-day! what’s this?
Miss Foster. Why, Dolly, this is April and May. You surprise me.
Dorothy. I am afraid, indeed, madam, that you have much to suffer from my caprice. (She goes out, L.)