plays [35]
(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 PATE, 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 washigh 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.
BARBARA. Well, Miss Dorothy, perhaps it's out of my place: but
I do hope Mr. Austin will come: I should love to have him see my
necklace on.
DOROTHY. Necklace? what necklace? Did he give you a necklace?
BARBARA. Yes, indeed, Miss, that he did: the very same day he
drove you in his curricle to Penshurst. You remember, Miss, I
couldn't go.
DOROTHY. I remember.
MISS FOSTER. And so do I. I had a touch of . . . Foster in the
blood: the family gout, dears! . . . And you, you ungrateful
nymph, had him a whole day to yourself, and not a word to tell me
when you returned.
DOROTHY. I remember. (RISING.) Is that the necklace, Barbara?
It does not suit you. Give it me.
BARBARA. La, Miss Dorothy, I wouldn't for the world.
DOROTHY. Come, give it me. I want it. Thank you: you shall
have my birthday pearls instead.
MISS FOSTER. Why, Dolly, I believe you're jealous of the maid.
Foster, Foster: always a Foster trick to wear the willow in
anger.
DOROTHY. I do not think, madam, that I am of a jealous habit.
MISS FOSTER. O, the personage is your excuse! And I can tell
you, child, that when George Austin was playing Florizel to the
Duchess's Perdita, all the maids in England fell a prey to green-
eyed melancholy. It was the TON, you see: not to pine for that
Sylvander was to resign from good society.
DOROTHY. Aunt Evelina, stop; I cannot endure to hear you. What
is he after all but just Beau Austin? What has he done - with
half a century of good health, what has he done that is either
memorable or worthy? Diced and danced and set fashions;
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 PATE, 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 washigh 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.
BARBARA. Well, Miss Dorothy, perhaps it's out of my place: but
I do hope Mr. Austin will come: I should love to have him see my
necklace on.
DOROTHY. Necklace? what necklace? Did he give you a necklace?
BARBARA. Yes, indeed, Miss, that he did: the very same day he
drove you in his curricle to Penshurst. You remember, Miss, I
couldn't go.
DOROTHY. I remember.
MISS FOSTER. And so do I. I had a touch of . . . Foster in the
blood: the family gout, dears! . . . And you, you ungrateful
nymph, had him a whole day to yourself, and not a word to tell me
when you returned.
DOROTHY. I remember. (RISING.) Is that the necklace, Barbara?
It does not suit you. Give it me.
BARBARA. La, Miss Dorothy, I wouldn't for the world.
DOROTHY. Come, give it me. I want it. Thank you: you shall
have my birthday pearls instead.
MISS FOSTER. Why, Dolly, I believe you're jealous of the maid.
Foster, Foster: always a Foster trick to wear the willow in
anger.
DOROTHY. I do not think, madam, that I am of a jealous habit.
MISS FOSTER. O, the personage is your excuse! And I can tell
you, child, that when George Austin was playing Florizel to the
Duchess's Perdita, all the maids in England fell a prey to green-
eyed melancholy. It was the TON, you see: not to pine for that
Sylvander was to resign from good society.
DOROTHY. Aunt Evelina, stop; I cannot endure to hear you. What
is he after all but just Beau Austin? What has he done - with
half a century of good health, what has he done that is either
memorable or worthy? Diced and danced and set fashions;