[_She turns short at the door, and presents it again._ SIR GEORGE. What would you do?--Here Bluntly! Bluntly! [_Exit_ ELEANOR. _Enter_ BLUNTLY. BLUNTLY. Did you call or no, sir? SIR GEORGE. Yes, sir, I did call now. (_In a threatening accent._) Don't you think you have behaved very well this morning? BLUNTLY. Yes, sir, I think I have. SIR GEORGE. I am not joking. BLUNTLY. Nor am I, sir. SIR GEORGE. And do not you think I should behave very well, if I was to discharge you my service? BLUNTLY. As well as can be expected, sir. SIR GEORGE. Why did you break in upon me just now? Did you think I was going to murder the girl? BLUNTLY. No, sir, I suspected neither love nor murder. SIR GEORGE. What then did you suspect? BLUNTLY. Why, sir, if I may make bold to speak--I was afraid the poor girl might be robbed: and of all she is worth in the world. SIR GEORGE. Blockhead! I suppose you mean her virtue? [_Smiling with contempt._ BLUNTLY. Why, to say the truth, sir, virtue is a currency that grows scarce in the world now-a-days--and some men are so much in need of it, that they think nothing of stopping a harmless female passenger in her road through life, and plundering her of it without remorse, though its loss, embitters every hour she must afterwards pass in her journey. _Enter_ HENRY. HENRY. Sir George, my father, liberated from prison by your bounty, is come gratefully to offer---- _Enter_ WILLFORD _and_ ELEANOR. ELEANOR. [_Holding her father by the hand, to prevent his going forward._ Oh, my father! whither are you going? Turn back--turn back. HENRY. [_To his father._ This is your benefactor--the man whose benevolence has put an end to your sufferings. [ELEANOR _bursts into tears and retires up the stage_. WILLFORD. How, sir, can I ever repay what I owe to you?--or how describe those emotions, which your goodness at this moment makes me feel? SIR GEORGE. [_In confusion._ Very well--very well--'tis all very well. (_Aside_) I wish it was.--(_To him_) I am glad I have been of service to you. WILLFORD. You have been like mercy to us all. My daughter's gratitude overflows in tears.--But why, my child, do you keep apart from us? Can you be too timid to confess your obligation? SIR GEORGE. Let her alone--let her indulge her humour. WILLFORD. Speak, Eleanor. SIR GEORGE. No, I had rather she would be silent. WILLFORD. You offend me by this obstinacy. ELEANOR. [_Going to_ WILLFORD _and taking his hand_. Oh, my father!--Oh! I cannot----I cannot speak. WILLFORD. Wherefore?--Explain this moment, what agitates you thus. ELEANOR. You must return to confinement again. WILLFORD. How? ELEANOR. The money that has set you free, was given for the basest purposes--and by a man as far beneath you in principle, as you are beneath him in fortune. Disdain the obligation--and come my father, return to prison.