“Because Flora seemed to wish to forget her engagement with dear Tom sometimes,” remarks the sister.
“I never, never, never wished to break with Tom! It's wicked of you to say so, Dora! It is you who were for ever sneering at him: it is you who are always envious because I happen—at least, because gentlemen imagine that I am not ill-looking, and prefer me to some folks, in spite of all their learning and wit!” cries Flora, tossing her head over her shoulder, and looking at the glass.
“Why are you always looking there, sister?” says the artless Miles junior. “Sure, you must know your face well enough!”
“Some people look at it just as often, child, who haven't near such good reason,” says papa, gallantly.
“If you mean me, Sir Miles, I thank you,” cries Dora. “My face is as Heaven made it, and my father and mother gave it me. 'Tis not my fault if I resemble my papa's family. If my head is homely, at least I have got some brains in it. I envious of Flora, indeed, because she has found favour in the sight of poor Tom Claypool! I should as soon be proud of captivating a ploughboy!”
“Pray, miss, was your Mr. Harry, of Virginia, much wiser than Tom Claypool? You would have had him for the asking!” exclaims Flora.
“And so would you, miss, and have dropped Tom Claypool into the sea!” cries Dora.
“I wouldn't.”
“You would.”
“I wouldn't;”—and da capo goes the conversation—the shuttlecock of wrath being briskly battled from one sister to another.