CARNABY. The girl is well-bred and harmless . . why publicly quarrel with John and incense her old brute of a father? There's the Duke in a score of words. He'll take a little time to think it out so. SARAH. And I say: Do you get on the right side of the Duke once again,--that's what we've worked for--and leave these two alone. CARNABY. Am I to lose my daughter? SARAH. Papa . . your food's intrigue. CARNABY. Scold at Society . . and what's the use? SARAH. We're over-civilized. ANN _rejoins them now. The twilight is gathering._ CARNABY. My mother's very old . . . your grandfather's younger and seventy-nine . . he swears I'll never come into the title. There's little else. SARAH. You're feverish . . why are you saying this? CARNABY. Ann . . George . . George via Wycombe . . Wycombe Court . . Sir George Leete baronet, Justice of the Peace, Deputy Lieutenant . . the thought's tumbled. Ann, I first saw your mother in this garden . . there. ANN. Was she like me? SARAH. My age when she married. CARNABY. She was not beautiful . . then she died. ANN. Mr. Tatton thinks it a romantic garden. CARNABY. [_Pause._] D'ye hear the wind sighing through that tree? ANN. The air's quite still. CARNABY. I hear myself sighing . . when I first saw your mother in this garden . . . that's how it was done. SARAH. For a woman must marry. CARNABY. [_Rises._] You all take to it as ducks to water . . but apple sauce is quite correct . . I must not mix metaphors. MRS. OPIE _comes from the house_. SARAH. Your supper done, Mrs. Opie? MRS. OPIE. I eat little in the evening. SARAH. I believe that saves digestion. MRS. OPIE. Ann, do you need me more to-night? ANN. Not any more. MRS. OPIE. Ann, there is gossip among the servants about a wager . . . ANN. Mrs. Opie, that was . . . yesterday. MRS. OPIE. Ann, I should be glad to be able to contradict a reported . . embrace. ANN. I was kissed. MRS. OPIE. I am shocked. CARNABY. Mrs. Opie, is it possible that all these years I have been nourishing a prude in my . . back drawing-room? MRS. OPIE. I presume I am discharged of Ann's education; but as the salaried mistress of your household, Mr. Leete, I am grieved not to be able to deny such a rumour to your servants. _She sails back, righteously indignant._ CARNABY. Call out that you're marrying the wicked man . . comfort her. SARAH. Mrs. Opie! CARNABY. Consider that existence. An old maid . . so far as we know. Brevet rank . . missis. Not pleasant. ANN. She wants nothing better . . at her age. SARAH. How forgetful! CARNABY. [_The force of the phrase growing._] Brighton, Sarah. SARAH. Now you've both read the love-letter which Tetgeen brought me. CARNABY. Come to Brighton. ANN. Come to Brighton, Sally. SARAH. No. I have been thinking. I think I will accept the income, the house, coals, butter and eggs. CARNABY. I give you a fortnight to bring your husband to his knees . . to your feet.