When our mirth abated, Sir Philip, colouring violently with his efforts to speak, said,

“I thank you, ma’am, I’m much obliged to you.”

But I really believe he spoke without knowing what he was saying.

“What a wonderful command,” said Dr. Delap, very gravely, “that lady must have over herself!”

She now took out a handkerchief, and wiped her eyes.

“Sir Philip,” cried Mr. Seward, “how can you suffer her to dry her own eyes?—­you, who sit next her?”

“I dare not dry them for her,” answered he, “because I am not the right man.”

“But if I sat next her,” returned he, “she would not dry them herself.”

“I wish,” cried Dr. Delap, “I had a bottle to put them in; ’tis a thousand’pities they should be wasted.”

“There, now,” said Mrs. Thrale, “she looks for all the world as if nothing had happened; for, you know, nothing has happened!”

“Would you cry, Miss Burney,” said Sir Philip, “if we asked you?”

“She can cry, I doubt not,” said Mr. Seward, “on any Proper occasion.”

142

“But I must know,” said I, “what for.”  I did not say this loud enough for the S. S. to hear me, but if I had, she would not have taken it for the reflection it meant.  She seemed, the whole time, totally insensible to the numerous strange and, indeed, impertinent speeches which were made and to be very well satisfied that she was only manifesting a tenderness of disposition, that increased her beauty of countenance.  At least, I can put no other construction upon her conduct which was, without exception, the strangest I ever saw.  Without any pretence of affliction,-to weep merely because she was bid, though bid in a manner to forbid any one else,—­to be in good spirits all the time,—­to see the whole company expiring of laughter at her tears, without being at all offended, and, at last, to dry them up, and go on with the same sort of conversation she held before they started!

" Everything A bore.”

Sunday, June 20,-While I was sitting with Mr. Thrale, in the library, Mr. Seward entered.  As soon as the first inquiries were over, he spoke about what he calls our comedy, and he pressed and teazed me to set about it.  But he grew, in the evening, so queer, so ennuy`e, that, in a fit of absurdity, I called him “Mr. Dry;” and the name took so with Mrs. Thrale, that I know not when he will lose it.  Indeed, there is something in this young man’s alternate drollery and lassitude, entertaining qualities and wearying complaints, that provoke me to more pertness than I practise to almost anybody.

The play, he said, should have the double title of “The Indifferent Man, or Everything a Bore;” and I protested Mr. Dry should be the hero.  And then we ran on, jointly planning a succession of ridiculous scenes;—­he lashing himself pretty freely though not half so freely, or so much to the purpose, as I lashed him; for I attacked him, through the channel of Mr, Dry, upon his ennui, his causeless melancholy, his complaining languors, his yawning inattention, and his restless discontent.  You may easily imagine I was in pretty high spirits to go so far:  in truth, nothing else could either have prompted or excused my facetiousness :  and his own manners are so cavalier, that they always, with me, stimulate a sympathising return.