DOROTHY (_entering_). Good-morning, aunt! Is there anything for me? (_She goes eagerly to table_, _and looks at letters_.) MISS FOSTER. Good-morrow, niece. Breakfast, Barbara. DOROTHY (_with letter unopened_). Nothing. MISS FOSTER. And what do you call that, my dear? (_Sitting_.) Is John Fenwick nobody? DOROTHY (_looking at letter_.) From John? O yes, so it is. (_Lays down letter unopened_, _and sits to breakfast_, BARBARA _waiting_.) MISS FOSTER (_to_ BARBARA, _with plate_). Thanks, child; now you may give me some tea. Dolly, I must insist on your eating a good breakfast: I cannot away with your pale cheeks and that Patience-on-a Monument kind of look. (Toast, Barbara.) At Edenside you ate and drank and looked like Hebe. What have you done with your appetite? DOROTHY. I don’t know, aunt, I’m sure. MISS FOSTER. Then consider, please, and recover it as soon as you can: to a young lady in your position a good appetite is an attraction—almost a virtue. Do you know that your brother arrives this morning? DOROTHY. Dear Anthony! Where is his letter, Aunt Evelina? I am pleased that he should leave London and its perils, if only for a day. MISS FOSTER. My dear, there are moments when you positively amaze. (Barbara, some _pâté_, if you please!) I beg you not to be a prude. All women, of course, are virtuous; but a prude is something I regard with abhorrence. The Cornet is seeing life, which is exactly what he wanted. You brought him up surprisingly well; I have always admired you for it; but let us admit—as women of the world, my dear—it was no upbringing for a man. You and that fine solemn fellow, John Fenwick, led a life that was positively no better than the Middle Ages; and between the two of you, poor Anthony (who, I am sure, was a most passive creature!) was so packed with principle and admonition that I vow and declare he reminded me of Issachar stooping between his two burdens. It was high time for him to be done with your apron-string, my dear: he has all his wild oats to sow; and that is an occupation which it is unwise to defer too long. By the bye, have you heard the news? The Duke of York has done us a service for which I was unprepared. (More tea, Barbara!) George Austin, bringing the prince in his train, is with us once more. DOROTHY. I knew he was coming. MISS FOSTER. You knew, child? and did not tell? You are a public criminal. DOROTHY. I did not think it mattered, Aunt Evelina. MISS FOSTER. O do not make-believe. I am in love with him myself, and have been any time since Nelson and the Nile. As for you, Dolly, since he went away six months ago, you have been positively in the megrims. I shall date your loss of appetite from George Austin’s vanishing. No, my dear, our family require entertainment: we must have wit about us, and beauty, and the _bel air_.