MISS FOSTER. You speak like a fool, child: sour grapes are all very well, but it's a woman's business to be married. As for Dorothy, she is five-and-twenty, and she breaks my heart. Such a match, too! Ten thousand to her fortune, the best blood in the north, a most advantageous person, all the graces, the finest sensibility, excellent judgment, the Foster walk; and all these go positively a-begging! The men seem stricken with blindness. Why, child, when I came out (and I was the dear girl's image!) I had more swains at my feet in a fortnight than our Dorothy in----O, I cannot fathom it: it must be the girl's own fault. BARBARA. Why, madam, I did think it was a case with Mr. Austin. MISS FOSTER. With Mr. Austin? why, how very rustic! The attentions of a gentleman like Mr. Austin, child, are not supposed to lead to matrimony. He is a feature of society: an ornament: a personage: a private gentleman by birth, but a kind of king by habit and reputation. What woman could he marry? Those to whom he might properly aspire are all too far below him. I have known George Austin too long, child, and I understand that the very greatness of his success condemns him to remain unmarried. BARBARA. Sure, madam, that must be tiresome for him. MISS FOSTER. Some day, child, you will know better than to think so. George Austin, as I conceive him, and as he is regarded by the world, is one of the triumphs of the other sex. I walked my first minuet with him: I wouldn't tell you the year, child, for worlds; but it was soon after his famous encounter with Colonel Villiers. He had killed his man, he wore pink and silver, was most elegantly pale, and the most ravishing creature! BARBARA. Well, madam, I believe that: he is the most beautiful gentleman still. SCENE II _To these, DOROTHY, L._ 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 letter down 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.