_Doric._ So! [_Looking at a Picture._] this is my mistress, I presume.--_Ma foi!_ the painter has hit her off.--The downcast eye--the blushing cheek--timid--apprehensive--bashful.--A tear and a prayer-book would have made her _La Bella Magdalena_.-- Give _me_ a woman in whose touching mien A mind, a soul, a polish'd art is seen; Whose motion speaks, whose poignant air can move. Such are the darts to wound with endless love. _Mrs. Rack._ Is that an impromptu? [_Touching him on the shoulder with her fan._] _Doric._ (_starting._) Madam!--[_Aside._] Finely caught!--Not absolutely--it struck me during the dessert, as a motto for your picture. _Mrs. Rack._ Gallantly turn'd! I perceive, however, Miss Hardy's charms have made no violent impression on you.--And who can wonder?--the poor girl's defects are so obvious. _Doric._ Defects! _Mrs. Rack._ Merely those of education.--Her father's indulgence ruin'd her.--_Mauvaise honte_--conceit and ignorance--all unite in the Lady you are to marry. _Doric._ Marry!--I marry such a woman!--Your picture, I hope, is overcharged.--I marry _mauvaise honte_, pertness and ignorance! _Mrs. Rack._ Thank your stars, that ugliness and ill temper are not added to the list.--You must think her handsome? _Doric._ Half her personal beauty would content me; but could the Medicean Venus be animated for me, and endowed with a vulgar soul, _I_ should become the statue, and my heart transformed to marble. _Mrs. Rack._ Bless us!--We are in a hopeful way then! _Doric._ (_Aside._) There must be some envy in this!--I see she is a coquette. Ha, ha, ha! And you imagine I am persuaded of the truth of your character? ha, ha, ha! Miss Hardy, I have been assur'd, Madam, is elegant and accomplished:----but one must allow for a Lady's painting. _Mrs. Rack._ (_Aside._) I'll be even with him for that. Ha! ha! ha! and so you have found me out!--Well, I protest I meant no harm; 'twas only to increase the _éclat_ of her appearance, that I threw a veil over her charms.----Here comes the Lady;--her elegance and accomplishments will announce themselves. _Enter_ Letitia, _running_. _Let._ La! Cousin, do you know that our John----oh, dear heart!--I didn't see you, Sir. (_Hanging down her head, and dropping behind Mrs._ Racket.) _Mrs. Rack._ Fye, Letitia! Mr. Doricourt thinks you a woman of elegant manners. Stand forward, and confirm his opinion. _Let._ No, no; keep before me.----He's my Sweetheart; and 'tis impudent to look one's Sweetheart in the face, you know. _Mrs. Rack._ You'll allow in future for a Lady's painting, Sir. Ha! ha! ha! _Doric._ I am astonish'd! _Let._ Well, hang it, I'll take heart.--Why, he is but a Man, you know, Cousin;--and I'll let him see I wasn't born in a Wood to be scar'd by an Owl. [_Half apart; advances, and looks at him through her fingers._] He! he! he! [_Goes up to him, and makes a very stiff formal curtesy._]--[_He bows._]--You have been a great Traveller, Sir, I hear?