umphs 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.

MISS FOSTER. My dear, there are moments when you positively amaze me.
(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 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 w