Inchbald, Elizabeth. Wives as They Were, and Maids as They Are. Eds. Gioia Angeletti and Thomas C. Crochunis. British Women Playwrights around 1800. 15 May 2003.
About the text
NOTE: Until this notice is removed, this text is a WORKING DRAFT that has not yet been fully proofed. It has been posted as a draft to provide access to those participating in the public reading series "The First 100 Years: The Professional Female Playwright" in New York City curated by Mallory Catlett and Gwynn MacDonald. For information on that series, please visit the Juggernaut Theatre website.
The text of Wives as They Were, and
Maids as They Are is based on the 1797 edition printed for G. G. and
J. Robinson [etc.] in London. The play was first performed on 4 March 1797
at Covent Garden. The electronic version of the text from a full-text database
is curently being compared to a microform facsimile of the 1797 printing
and to the text of the play included in The British Theatre
(1806-09), a series of plays for which
Inchbald wrote prefaces. (The British Theatre version is the
facsimile from Roger Manvell (ed.), Selected Comedies of Elizabeth Inchbald.)
Two members of the editorial board have proof-read the original. When the
BWP1800 edition is completed, it will include notation of significant variants
between these two versions of the play.
The original 1797 publication included a prologue and epilogue not included in The British Theatre's edition.
WIVES AS THEY WERE,
AND MAIDS AS THEY
ARE.
A COMEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.
PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT-GARDEN.
PROLOGUE, BY A FRIEND; SPOKEN BY Mr. WADDY. [By unknown]
I come not to announce a bashful maid
Who ne'er has try'd the drama's doubtful
trade,
Who sees with flutt'ring hope the curtain
rise,
And scans with timid glance your critic
eyes;
My client is a more experienc'd dame,
Tho' not a Veteran, not unknown to Fame,
Who thinks your favours are an honest boast,
Yet fears to forfeit what she values most;
Who has, she trusts, some character to
lose,
E'en tho' the woman did not aid the Muse;
Who courts with modest aim the public smile,
That stamp of merit, and that meed of
toil.
At Athens once (our author has been told)
The Comic Muse, irregularly bold,
With living calumny profan'd her stage,
And forg'd the frailties of the faultless
sage.
Such daring ribaldry you need not fear,
We have no Socrates to libel here.
Ours are the follies of an humbler flight,
Offspring of manners volatile and light;
Our gen'ral satire keeps more knaves in
awe,
Our court of conscience comes in aid of
law.
Here scourg'd by wit, and pilloried by
fun,
Ten thousand coxcombs blush instead of
one.
If scenes like these could make the guilty
shrink,
Could teach unfeeling Folly how to think,
Check Affectation's voluble career,
And from cold Fashion force the struggling
tear,
Our author would your loudest praise
forego,
Content to feel within "what passes show."
"But since" (she says) "such hopes cannot
be mine,
"Such bold pretensions I must needs resign,
"Tell these great judges of dramatic laws,
"Their reformation were my best applause;
"Yet if the heart my proud appeal withstands,
"I ask the humbler suffrage of their hands."
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
Lord Priory - Mr. Quick.
Sir William Dorrillon - Mr. Munden.
Sir George Evelyn - Mr. Pope.
Mr. Bronzely - Mr. Lewis.
Mr. Norberry - Mr. Waddy.
Oliver - Mr. Fawcett.
Nabson - Mr. Thompson.
Lady Priory - Miss Chapman.
Lady Mary Raffle - Mrs. Mattocks.
Miss Dorrillon - Miss Wallis.
Several Servants, &c.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
[London. An Apartment at Mr. Norberry's. Enter Sir William Dorrillon, followed by Mr. Norberry.]
Mr. Norberry.
Why blame me?—Why blame me?—My
sister had the sole management of your daughter by your own authority, from
the age of six years, till within eight months of the present time, when,
in consequence of my sister's death, she was transferred to my protection.
Sir William.
Your sister, Mr. Norberry, was a prudent,
good woman—she never could instruct her in all this vice.
Mr. Norberry.
Depend upon it, my dear friend, that
miss Dorrillon, your daughter, came to my house just the same heedless woman
of fashion you now see her.
Sir William [impatiently.]
Very well—'Tis very well.—But, when
I think on my disappointment—
Mr. Norberry.
There is nothing which may not be repaired.
Maria, with you for a guide—
Sir William.
Me! She turns me into ridicule—laughs
at me! This morning, as she was enumerating some of her frivolous expences,
she observed me lift up my hands and sigh; on which she named fifty other
extravagances she had no occasion to mention, merely to enjoy the pang which
every folly of hers sends to my heart.
Mr. Norberry.
But do not charge this conduct of your
daughter to the want of filial love:—did she know you were sir William Dorrillon,
did she know you were her father, every word you uttered, every look you
glanced, would be received with gentleness and submission:—but your present
rebukes from Mr. Mandred (as you are called), from a perfect stranger, as
she supposes, she considers as an impertinence which she has a right to resent.
Sir William.
I wish I had continued abroad. And yet,
the hope of beholding her, and of bestowing upon her the riches I acquired,
was my sole support through all the toils by which I gained them.
Mr. Norberry.
And, considering her present course
of life, your riches could not come more opportunely.
Sir William.
She shall never have a farthing of them.
Do you think I have encountered the perils of almost every climate, to squander
my hard-earned fortune upon the paltry vicious pleasures in which she delights?
No.—I have been now in your house exactly a month—I will stay but one
day longer—and then, without
telling her who I am, I will leave the kingdom and her for ever—Nor shall
she know that this insignificant merchant whom she despises, was her father,
till he is gone, never to be recalled.
Mr. Norberry.
You are offended with some justice:
but, as I have often told you, your excessive delicacy and respect for the
conduct of the other sex, degenerate into rigour.
Sir William.
True—for what I see so near perfection
as woman, I want to see perfect. We, Mr. Norberry, can never be perfect; but
surely women, women, might easily be made angels!
Mr. Norberry.
And if they were, we should soon be
glad to make them into women again.
Sir William [inattentive to Mr.
Norberry.]
She sets the example. She gives the
fashion!— and now your whole house, and all your visitors, in imitation
of her, treat me with levity, or with contempt.—But I'll go away to-morrow.
Mr. Norberry.
Can you desert your child in the moment
she most wants your protection? That exquisite beauty just now mature—
Sir William.
There's my difficulty!—There's my
struggle!— If she were not so like her mother, I could leave her without
a pang—cast her off, and think no more of her.—But that shape! that face!
those speaking looks! Yet, how reversed!—Where is the diffidence, the humility—where
is the simplicity of my beloved wife? Buried in her grave. Mr. Norberry.
And, in all this great town, you may
never see even its apprition.
Sir William.
I rejoice, however, at the stratagem
by which I have gained a knowledge of her heart: deprived of the means of
searching it in her early years,— had I come as her father, she might have
deceived me with counterfeit manners, till time disclosed the imposition.—Now,
at least, I am not imposed upon.
[Enter Servant.]
Servant.
Lord
Priory.
[Exit.]
Sir
William.]
Lord Priory!
Mr. Norberry.
An old acquaintance of mine, though
we seldom meet. He has some singularities; and yet, perhaps—
[Enter Lord Priory.]
Mr. Norberry.
My dear Lord, I am glad to see you. Mr.
Mandred [introducing Sir William]. My Lord, I hope I see you in perfect
health.
Lord Priory.
Yes: but in very ill humour. I came to
London early this morning with my family for the winter, and found my house,
after going through only a slight repair, so damp, that I dare not sleep in
it: and so I am now sending and going all over the town to seek for lodgings.
Mr. Norberry.
Then seek no farther, but take up your
lodgings here.
Lord Priory.
To be plain with you, I called in hopes
you would ask me; for I am so delicately scrupulous in respect to lady Priory,
that I could not bear the thought of taking her to an hotel.
Mr.
Norberry.
Then pray return home, and bring her hither
immediately, with all your luggage.
Lord Priory.
I am most extremely obliged to you [very
fervently]; for into no one house belonging to any of my acquaintance
would I take my wife, so soon as into yours. I have now been married eleven
years, and during all that time I have made it a rule never to go on a visit,
so as to domesticate, in the house of a married man.
Sir William.
May I enquire the reason of that?
Lord Priory.
It is because I am married myself; and
having always treated my wife according to the ancient mode of treating wives,
I would rather she should never be an eye-witness to the modern household
management.
Sir William.
The ancients, I believe, were very affectionate
to their wives.
Lord
Priory.
And they had reason to be so; for their
wives obeyed them. The ancients seldom gave them the liberty to do wrong:
but modern wives do as they like.
Mr.
Norberry.
And don't you suffer Lady Priory to do
as she likes?
Lord
Priory.
Yes, when it is what I like too. But never,
never else.
Sir
William.
Does not this draw upon you the character
of an unkind husband?
Lord Priory.
That I am proud of. Did you never observe,
that seldom a breach of fidelity in a wife is exposed, where the unfortunate
husband is not said to be "the best creature in the world! Poor man, so good-natured!—Doatingly
fond of his wife!— Indulged her in every thing!—How cruel in her
to serve him so!" Now, if I am served so, it shall not be for my good-nature.
Mr.
Norberry.
But I hope you equally disapprove of every
severity.
Lord
Priory [rapidly.]
What do you mean by severity?
Mr.
Norberry.
You know you used to be rather violent
in your temper.
Lord
Priory.
So I am still—apt to be hasty and
passionate— but that is rather of advantage to me as a husband —it
causes me to be obeyed without hesitation— no liberty for contention,
tears, or repining. I insure conjugal sunshine, by now and then introducing
a storm; while some husbands never see any thing but a cloudy sky, and all
for the want of a little domestic thunder to clear away the vapours.
Sir
William.
I have long conceived indulgence to be
the bane of female happiness.
Lord
Priory.
And so it is.—I know several women
of fashion, who will visit six places of different amusement on the same night,
have company at home besides, and yet, for want of something more, they'll
be out of spirits: my wife never goes to a public place, has scarce ever company
at home, and yet is always in spirits.
Sir
William.
Never visits operas, or balls, or routs?
Lord
Priory.
How should she? She goes to bed every night
exactly at ten.
Mr.
Norberry.
In the name of wonder, how have you been
able to bring her to that?
Lord
Priory.
By making her rise every morning at five.
Mr. Norberry.
And so she becomes tired before night.
Lord
Priory.
Tired to death. Or, if I see her eyes completely
open at bed-time, and she asks me to play one game more at picquet, the next
morning I jog her elbow at half after four.
Mr.
Norberry.
But suppose she does not reply to the signal?
Lord Priory.
Then I turn the key of the door when I
leave the chamber; and there I find her when I return in the evening.
Sir
William.
And without her having seen a creature
all day?
Lord
Priory.
That is in my favour; for not having seen
a single soul, she is rejoiced even to see me.
Mr.
Norberry.
And will she speak to you after such usage?
Lord Priory.
If you only considered how much a woman
longs to speak after being kept a whole day silent, you would not ask that
question.
Mr.
Norberry.
Well! this is the most surprising method!
Lord
Priory.
Not at all. In ancient days, when manners
were simple and pure, did not wives wait at the table of their husbands? and
did not angels witness the subordination? I have taught Lady Priory to practise
the same humble docile obedience—to pay respect to her husband in every
shape and every form—no careless inattention to me—no smiling politeness
to others in preference to me—no putting me up in a corner—in all
assemblies, she considers her husband as the first person.
Sir
William.
I am impatient to see her.
Lord
Priory.
But don't expect a fine lady with high
feathers, and the et c*tera of an Eastern concubine; you will see a modest
plain Englishwoman, with a cap on her head, a handkerchief on her neck, and
a gown of our own manufacture.
Sir
William.
My friend Norberry, what a contrast must
there be between Lady Priory and the ladies in this house!
Lord
Priory [starting.]
Have you ladies in this house?
Mr.
Norberry.
Don't be alarmed; they are both single,
and can give Lady Priory no ideas concerning the marriage state.
Lord
Priory.
Are you sure of that? Some single women
are more informed than their friends believe.
Mr.
Norberry.
For these ladies, notwithstanding a few
(what you would call) excesses, I will answer.
Lord
Priory.
Well, then, I and my wife will be with
you about nine in the evening; you know we go to-bed at ten.
Mr.
Norberry.
But remember you bring your own servants
to wait on you at five in the morning.
Lord
Priory.
I shall bring but one—my old servant
Oliver, who knows all my customs so well, that I never go any where without
him.
Mr.
Norberry.
And is that old servant your valet still?
Lord
Priory.
No, he is now a kind of gentleman in waiting.
I have had no employment for a valet since I married:—my wife, for want
of dissipation, has not only time to attend upon herself, but upon me. Do
you think I could suffer a clumsy man to tie on my neckcloth, or comb out
my hair, when the soft, delicate, and tender hands of my wife are at my command?
[Exit. Sir
William.]
After this amiable description of a woman,
how can I endure to see her, whom reason bids me detest; but whom nature still—
Mr. Norberry.
Here she comes; and her companion in folly
along with her.
Sir
William.
There's another woman! that Lady Mary Raffle!
How can you suffer such people in your house?
Mr.
Norberry.
She is only on a visit for a few months—she
comes every winter, as her family and mine have long been intimately connected.
Sir
William.
Let us go. Let us go. I can't bear the
sight of them.
[Going.]
Mr. Norberry.
Stay, and for once behave with politeness
and good humour to your daughter—do—and I dare venture my life,
she will neither insult nor treat you with disrespect. You know you always
begin first.
Sir
William.
Have not I a right to begin first?
Mr.
Norberry.
But that is a right of which she is ignorant.
Sir William.
And deserves to be so, and ever shall be
so. "I stay and treat her with politeness and good-humour?" No—rather
let her kneel and implore my pardon.
Mr.
Norberry.
Suffer me to reveal who you are, and so
she will.
Sir
William.
If you expose me only by one insinuation
to her knowledge, our friendship is that moment at an end.
Mr.
Norberry [Firmly.]
I have already given you my promise on
that subject; and you may rely upon it.
Sir
William.
I thank you—I believe you—and
I thank you.
[Exeunt Sir William and Mr. Norberry. Enter Lady Mary Raffle and Miss Dorrillon.]
Miss Dorrillon [Stealing on as Mr.
Norberry and Sir William leave the stage.]
They are gone. Thank heaven they are gone
out of this room, for I expect a dozen visiters; and Mr. Norberry looks so
gloomy upon me, he puts me out of spirits: while that Mr. Mandred's peevishness
is not to be borne.
Lady Mary.
Be satisfied; for you were tolerably severe
upon him this morning in your turn.
Miss
Dorrillon.
Why, I am vext—and I don't like to
be found fault with in my best humour, much less when I have so many things
to tease me.
Lady
Mary.
What are they?
Miss
Dorrillon.
I have now lost all my money, and all my
jewels. at play; it is almost two years since I have received a single remittance
from my father; and Mr. Norberry refuses to advance me a shilling more.—
What I shall do to discharge a debt which must be paid either to-day or to-morrow,
heaven knows!— Dear Lady Mary, you could not lend me a small sum, could
you?
Lady Mary.
Who? I! [with surprise]—My
dear creature, it was the very thing I was going to ask of you: for when you have money, I know no one so willing to
disperse it among her friends.
Miss
Dorrillon.
Am not I?—I protest I love to part
with my money; for I know with what pleasure I receive it myself, and I like
to see that joy sparkle in another's eye, which has so often brightened my
own. But last night ruined me—I must have money somewhere. —As you
can't assist me, I must ask Mr. Norberry for his carriage, and immediately
go in search of some friend that can lend me four, or five, or six, or seven
hundred pounds. But the worst is, I have lost my credit—Is not that dreadful?
Lady
Mary.
Yes, yes, I know what it is.
[Shaking her head.]
Miss Dorrillon.
What will become of me?
Lady
Mary.
Why don't you marry, and throw all your
misfortunes upon your husband?
Miss
Dorrillon.
Why don't you marry? For you have as many
to throw.
Lady
Mary.
But not so many lovers who would be willing
to receive the load. I have no Sir George Evelyn with ten thousand pounds
a year—no Mr. Bronzely.
Miss
Dorrillon.
If you have not now, you once had: for
I am sure Bronzely once paid his addresses to you.
Lady
Mary.
And you have the vanity to suppose you
took him from me?
Miss Dorrillon.
Silence.—Reserve your anger to defend,
and not to attack me. We should
be allies by the common ties of poverty: and 'tis time to arm; for here's
the enemy.
[Enter Sir William with Mr. Norberry.]
Sir William.
They are here still. [Aside to Mr. Norberry,
and offering to go back.]
Mr.
Norberry [Preventing him.]
No, no.
Miss
Dorrillon.
I have been waiting here, Mr. Norberry,
to ask a favour of you. [He and Sir William come forward] Will you
be so kind as to lend me your carriage for a couple of hours?
Mr.
Norberry.
Mr. Mandred [pointing to Sir William]
has just asked me for it to take him into the city.
Lady
Mary.
Oh, Mr. Mandred will give it up to Miss
Dorrillon, I am sure: he can defer his business till tomorrow.
Sir
William.
No, madam, she may as well put off hers.
I have money to receive, and I can't do it.
Miss
Dorrillon.
I have money to pay, and I can't do it.
Lady Mary.
If one is going to receive, and the other
to pay money, I think the best way is for you to go together; and then, what
deficiency there is on one side, the other may supply.
Miss
Dorrillon.
Will you consent, Mr. Mandred?—Come,
do; and I'll be friends with you.
Sir
William [Aside.]
"She'll be friends with me!"
Miss
Dorrillon.
Will you?
Sir
William.
No.
Miss
Dorrillon.
Well, I certainly can ask a favour of Mr.
Mandred better than I can of any person in the world.
Mr.
Norberry.
Why so, Maria?
Miss
Dorrillon.
Because, instead of pain, I can see it
gives him pleasure to refuse me.
Sir
William.
I never confer a favour, of the most trivial
kind, where I have no esteem.
Miss
Dorrillon [Proudly.]
Nor would I receive a favour, of the most
trivial kind, from one who has not liberality to esteem me.
Mr.
Norberry.
Come, Miss Dorrillon, do not grow serious:
laugh as much as you please, but say nothing that—
Sir
William [To her impatiently.]
From whom then can you ever receive favours,
except from the vain, the idle, and the depraved? —from those whose lives
are passed in begging them of others?
Miss
Dorrillon.
They are the persons who know best how
to bestow them: for my part, had I not sometimes felt what it was to want
a friend, I might never have had humanity to be the friend of another.
[Enter Servant.]
Servant.
Sir George Evelyn.
Mr.
Norberry.
And pray, my dear, whose friend have you
ever been?—[Enter Sir George Evelyn.]—Not Sir George Evelyn's,
I am sure; and yet he of all others deserves your friendship most.
Miss Dorrillon.
But friendship will not content him: as
soon as he thought he had gained that—
Sir
George.
He aspired to the supreme happiness of
your love.
Miss
Dorrillon.
Now you talk of "supreme happiness," have
you provided tickets for the fete on Thursday?
Sir
George.
I have; provided you have obtained Mr.
Norberry's leave to go.
Mr. Norberry.
That I cannot grant.
Miss
Dorrillon.
Nay, my dear Sir, do not force me to go
without it.
Sir
William [With violence.]
Would you dare?
Miss
Dorillon [Looking with surprise.]
"Would I dare," Mr. Mandred!—and what
have you to say if I do?
Sir William [Recollecting himself.]
I was only going to say, that if you did,
and I were Mr. Norberry—
Miss
Dorrillon.
And if you were Mr. Norberry, and treated
me in the manner you now do, depend upon it I should not think your approbation
or disapprobation, your pleasure or displeasure, of the slightest consequence.
Sir
William [Greatly agitated.]
I dare say not—I dare say not. Good
morning, Sir George—I dare say not.—Good morning, Mr. Norberry.
[Going.]
Mr. Norberry.
Stop a moment.—Maria, you have offended
Mr. Mandred.
Miss
Dorrillon.
He has offended me.
Sir
William [At the door, going off.]
I shan't offend you long.
Mr.
Norberry [Going to him, and taking him by the arm.]
Stay, Mr. Mandred: Miss Dorrillon, make
an apology: Mr. Mandred is my friend, and you must not treat him with this
levity.
Lady
Mary.
No, no apology.
Miss
Dorrillon.
No, no apology. But I'll tell you what
I'll do. [Goes up to Sir William.]—If Mr. Mandred likes, I'll
shake hands with him—and we'll be good friends for the future. But then,
don't find fault with me —I can't bear it. You don't like to be found
fault with, yourself—You look as cross as any thing every time I say
the least word against you. Come, shake hands; and don't let us see one another's
failings for the future.
Sir
William.
There is no future for the trial.
Miss Dorrillon.
How do you mean?
Mr.
Norberry.
Mr. Mandred sets off again for India to-morrow.
Miss Dorrillon.
Indeed! I thought he was come to live in
England! I am sorry you are going.
Sir
William [with earnestness.]
Why sorry?
Miss
Dorrillon.
Because we have so frequently quarrelled.
I am always unhappy when I am going to be parted from a person with whom I
have disagreed; I often think I could part with less regret from a friend.
Sir
George.
Not, I suppose, if the quarrel is forgiven?
Miss
Dorrillon.
Ah! but Mr. Mandred does not forgive! no!
in his looks I can always see resentment.—Sometimes indeed I have traced
a spark of kindness, and have gently tried to blow it to a little flame of
friendship; when, with one hasty puff I have put it out.
Sir
William.
You are right. It is—I believe—extinguished.
[Exit;
Mr. Norberry following. Sir
George.
A very singular man.
Lady
Mary.
Oh! if he was not rich, there would be
no bearing him—Indeed he seems to have lost all his friends; for during
the month he has been here, I never found he had any one acquaintance out
of this house.
Miss
Dorrillon.
And what is very strange, he has taken
an aversion to me.—But it is
still more strange, that although I know he has, yet in my heart I like him.
He is morose to an insufferable degree; but then, when by chance he speaks
kind, you cannot imagine how it soothes me.—He wants compassion and all
the tender virtues; and yet, I frequently think, that if any serious misfortune
were to befall me, he would be the first person to whom I should fly to complain.
Lady Mary.
Then why don't you fly and tell him of
your misfortune last night.
Sir
George [starting.]
What misfortune?
Miss
Dorrillon [to Lady Mary.]
Hush!
Lady
Mary.
A loss at play.—[To Miss Dorrillon.]—I
beg your pardon, but it was out before you said hush.
Sir
George.
Ah! Maria, will you still risk your own
and my happiness?
Miss Dorrillon.
Your happiness and mine, Sir!—I beg
you will not place them so near to each other.
Sir
George.
Mine is so firmly fixed on you, it can
only exist in yours.
Lady Mary.
Then, when she is married to Mr. Bronzely,
you will be happy because she will be so?
Sir
George.
Bronzely! has he dared?
Miss Dorrillon.
Have not you dared, Sir?
Lady Mary.
But I believe Mr. Bronzely is the most
daring of the two.—[aside to Sir George.]—Take care of him.
[Exit. Sir
George.]
Miss Dorrillon, I will not affront you
by supposing that you mean seriously to receive the addresses of Mr. Bronzely;
but I warn you against giving others, who know you less than I do, occasion
to think so.
Miss
Dorrillon.
I never wish to deceive any one—I
do admit of Mr. Bronzely's addresses.
Sir
George.
Why, he is the professed lover of your
friend Lady Mary! or granting he denies it, and that I even pass over the
frivolity of the coxcomb, still he is unworthy of you.
Miss
Dorrillon.
He says the same of you; and half a dozen
more say exactly the same of each other. If you like, I'll discard every one
of you as unworthy; but if I retain you, I will retain the rest. Which do
you choose?
Sir
George.
I submit to any thing rather than the total
loss of you—But remember, that your felicity—
Miss
Dorrillon.
"Felicity! felicity!"—ah! that is
a word not to be found in the vocabulary of my sensations!— [sighing.]
Sir George.
I believe you, and have always regarded
you with a compassion that has augmented my love. In your infancy, deprived
of the watchful eye and anxious tenderness of a mother; the manly caution and authority of a father; misled by the brilliant
vapour of fashion; surrounded by enemies in the garb of friends—Ah! do
you weep? blessed, blessed be the sign!—Suffer me to dry those tears
I have caused, and to give you a knowledge of true felicity.
Miss
Dorrillon. [recovering.]
I am very angry with myself.—Don't,
I beg, tell Mr. Norberry or Mr. Mandred you saw me cry— they'll suppose
I have been more indiscreet [stifling her tears] than I really have.
For in reality I have nothing—
Sir George.
Do not endeavour to conceal from me, what
my tender concern for you has given me the means to become acquainted with.
I know you are plunged in difficulties by your father neither sending nor
coming, as you once expected: I know you are still deeper plunged by your
fondness for play.
Miss Dorrillon.
Very well, Sir! proceed.
Sir
George.
Thus, then—Suffer me to send my steward
to you this morning; he shall regulate your accounts, and place them in a
state that shall protect you from further embarrassment till your father sends
to you; or protect you from his reproaches, should he arrive.
Miss
Dorrillon.
Sir George, I have listened to your detail
of vices which I acknowledge, with patience, with humility —but your
suspicion of those which I have not, I treat with pride, with indignation.
Sir
George.
How! suspicion!
Miss
Dorrillon.
What part of my conduct, Sir, has made
you dare to suppose I would extricate myself from the difficulties that surround
me, by the influence I hold over the weakness of a lover?
[Exeunt separately.]
End of Act I
