to cry at the thoughts of it all.
Here, the first of the company. I am sorry for it. (Evans comes forward.) Evans, what has brought you hither?
I came, my lady, to see the preparations making on your account – for it is upon your account alone, that Sir George gives this grand fête.
Why, I do flatter myself it is. – But where is he? What is it o'clock? – It was impossible to stay at the stupid opera. – How do I look? I once did intend to wear those set of diamonds Sir George presented me with the other morning – but then, I reflected again, that if —
Ah, my lady, what a charming thing to have such a lover – Sir George prevents every wish —
he must make the best of husbands.
And yet my father wishes to break off the marriage – he talks of his prodigality – and, certainly, Sir George lives above his income.
But then, Madam, so does every body else.
But Sir George ought undoubtedly to change his conduct, and not be thus continually giving balls and entertainments – and inviting to his table acquaintance, that not only come to devour his dinners and suppers, but him.
And there are people malicious enough to call your ladyship one of his devourers too.
As a treaty of marriage is so nearly concluded between us, I think, Mrs. Evans, I am at liberty to visit Sir George, or to receive his presents, without having my character, or my delicacy called in question. (A loud rapping.) The company are coming: is it not strange he is not here to receive them.
Ladies, I entreat your pardon; dear Lady
Caroline excuse me. I have been in the country all the morning, and have had scarce time to return to town and dress for your reception.
Enter Mr. Lucre, Lord Hazard, LadyBridget Squander, &c.
Dear Lucre, I am glad to see you.
My dear Sir George, I had above ten engagements this evening, but they all gave place to your invitation.
Thank you. – My dear Lady Bridget —
It is impossible to resist an invitation from the most polished man alive. (Sir George bows.) What a superb dress! (in his hearing, as he turnsaway) and what an elegant deportment.
No, I am not in a state to take any part at Pharo – I am ruin'd. – Would you believe it Sir George, I am not worth a farthing in the world.
Yes, I believed it long ago.
Now we are on that subject – could you lend me a hundred pounds?
I have about me, only this bill for two hundred.
That will do as well – I am not circumstantial. (Takes it.) And my dear Sir George command my purse at any time – all it contains, will ever be at your service.
I thank you.
Nay, though I have no money of my own, yet you know I can always raise friends – and by heaven! my dear Sir George, I often wish to see you reduced to my circumstances, merely to prove how much I could, and would, do to serve you.
I sincerely thank you.
And one can better ask a favour for one's friend than for one's-self, you know: for when one wants to borrow money on one's own account, there are so many little delicacies to get the better of – such as I felt just now. – I was as pale as death, I dare say, when I asked you for this money – did not you perceive I was?
I can't say I did.
But you must have observed I hesitated, and looked very foolish.
I thought for my part, that I looked as foolish. – But I hope I did not hesitate.
Nor ever will, when a friend applys to you, I'll answer for it – Nor ever shall a friend hesitate when you apply.
The obligations I am under to you for extricating me from that dangerous business —
Never name it.
Not only name it, Sir George, but shortly I hope to return the kindness; and, if I do but live —
Permit me to conduct you to the next apartment.
Most willingly, Sir George. I was the first who arrived; which proves my eagerness to dance.
But let me hope, passion for dancing was not the only one, that caused your impatience.
Oh! there never was such a man in the world as the master of this house; there never was such a friendly, generous, noble heart; he has the best heart in the world, and the best taste in dress.
SCENE II. An Apartment, which denotesthe Poverty of the Inhabitants. Henry and Eleanor discovered
It is very late and very cold too, brother; and yet we have neither of us heart to bid each other good night.
No – beds were made for rest.
And that noise of carriages and link-boys at Sir George Splendorville's, next door, would keep us awake, if our sorrows did not.
The poor have still more to complain of, when chance throws them thus near the rich, – it forces upon their minds a comparison might drive them to despair, if —
– If they should not have good sense enough to reflect, that all this bustle and show of pleasure, may fall very short of happiness; as all the distress we feel, has not yet, thank Heaven, reached to misery.
What do you call it then?
A trial; sent to make us patient.
It may make you so, but cannot me. Good morning to you.
Nay, it is night yet. Where are you going?
I don't know. – To take a walk. – The streets are not more uncomfortable than this place, and scarcely colder.
Oh, my dear brother! I cannot express half the uneasiness I feel when you part from me, though but for the shortest space.
Why?
Because