had always the pleasure of hoping for ’em; now fortune’s in my hand she’s as insipid as an old acquaintance.  It’s mighty silly, faith, just the same thing by my wife, too; I am told she’s extremely handsome [as though the sad devil didn’t know it], nay, and have heard a great many people say she is certainly the best woman in the world—­why, I don’t know but she may, yet I could never find that her person or good qualities gave me any concern.  In my eye, the woman has no more charms than my mother”—­and we may be sure that Sir Charles had never bothered himself much about the attractions of the last named lady.

Then the fair Edging comes to centre of stage and the following innocent dialogue ensues: 

* * * * *

“EDGING.  Hum—­he takes no notice of me yet—­I’ll let him see I can take as little notice of him. [She walks by him gravely, he turns her about and holds her; she struggles.] Pray, sir!

“SIR CHARLES.  A pretty pert air that—­I’ll humour it—­what’s the matter, child—­are you not well?  Kiss me, hussy.

“EDGING.  No, the deuce fetch me if I do. [Here was a model servant, of course.]

“SIR CHARLES.  Has anything put thee out of humour, love?

“EDGING.  No, sir, ’tis not worthy my being out of humour at ... don’t you suffer my lady to huff me every day as if I were her dog, or had no more concern with you—­I declare I won’t bear it and she shan’t think to huff me.  For aught I know I am as agreeable as she; and though she dares not take any notice of your baseness to her, you shan’t think to use me so—­”

* * * * *

But enough of this delectable conversation.  The picture which it gives us is unpleasant and coarse; there is about it none of the glitter that can make vice so alluring.  We will also skip an interview between Sir Charles and Lady Easy (who thinks it the part of diplomacy to hide her knowledge of her master’s peccadilloes), and hurry on to the entrance of Lord Morelove, our hero.  Morelove, who must have been admirably played by the fiery, impetuous Powell, is neither a libertine, nor, on the other hand, a prig; he is simply a gentlemanly and essentially human fellow who is consumed with an honest passion for Lady Betty Modish.  Nay, he would be glad to marry the fine creature, but she has quarrelled with him and he is now telling Sir Charles all about it: 

* * * * *

“So, disputing with her about the conduct of women, I took the liberty to tell her how far I thought she err’d in hers; she told me I was rude and that she would never believe any man could love a woman that thought her in the wrong in anything she had a mind to [Rather exacting, are you not, Lady Betty?], at least if he dared to tell her so.  This provok’d me into her whole character, with as much spite and civil malice, as I have seen her bestow upon a woman of true beauty, when the men first toasted her:[A] so in the middle of my wisdom, she told me she desir’d to be alone, that I would take my odious proud heart along with me and trouble her no more.  I bow’d very low, and as I left the room I vow’d I never wou’d, and that my proud heart should never be humbled by the outside of a fine woman.  About an hour after, I whipp’d into my chaise for London, and have never seen her since.”