Anthony, Barbara
Barbara. Please, Mr. Anthony, Miss Foster said I was to show your room.
Anthony. Ha! Baby? Now, you come here. You’re a girl of sense, I know.
Barbara. La, Mr. Anthony, I hope I’m nothing of the kind.
Anthony. Come, come! that’s not the tone I want: I’m serious. Does this man Austin come much about the house?
Barbara. O Mr. Anthony, for shame! Why don’t you ask Miss Foster?
Anthony. Now I wish you to understand: I’m the head of this family. It’s my business to look after my sister’s reputation, and my aunt’s too, begad! That’s what I’m here for: I’m their natural protector. And what I want you, Barbara Ridley, to understand—you whose fathers have served my fathers—is just simply this: if you’ve any common gratitude, you’re bound to help me in the work. Now Barbara, you know me, and you know my Aunt Evelina. She’s a good enough woman; I’m the first to say so. But who is she to take care of a young girl? She’s ignorant of the world to that degree she believes in Beau Austin! Now you and I, Bab, who are not so high and dry, see through and through him; we know that a man like that is no fit company for any inexperienced girl.
Barbara. O Mr. Anthony, don’t say that. (Weeping.)
Anthony. Hullo! what’s wrong?
Barbara. Nothing that I know of. O Mr. Anthony, I don’t think there can be anything.