"Good-by t'ye!" No, no--when
such a sprig of nobility has been nibbling here and there and everywhere,
and has glutted himself with the devil knows what all, of course it will
be a relish to my young gentleman to get a mouthful of sweet water. Take
heed! Take heed! If you were dotted with eyes, and could place a
sentinel for every hair of your head, he'll bamboozle her under your very
nose; add one to her reckoning, take himself off, and the girl's ruined
for life, left in the lurch, or, having once tasted the trade, will carry
it on. (Striking his forehead.) Oh, horrible thought!

MRS MILLER. God in his mercy protect us!

MILLER. We shall want his protection. You may well say that. What
other object can such a scapegrace have? The girl is handsome--well
made--can show a pretty foot. How the upper story is furnished matters
little. That's blinked in you women if nature has not played the niggard
in other respects. Let this harum-scarum but turn over this chapter--ho!
ho! his eyes will glisten like Rodney's when he got scent of a French
frigate; then up with all sail and at her, and I don't blame him for it--
flesh is flesh. I know that very well.

MRS MILLER. You should only read the beautiful billy-doux which the
baron writes to your daughter. Gracious me! Why it's as clear as the
sun at noonday that he loves her purely for her virtuous soul.

MILLER. That's the right strain! We beat the sack, but mean the ass's
back. He who wishes to pay his respects to the flesh needs only a kind
heart for a go-between. What did I myself? When we've once so far
cleared the ground that the affections cry ready! slap! the bodies follow
their example, the appetites are obedient, and the silver moon kindly
plays the pimp.

MRS MILLER. And then only think of the beautiful books that the major
has sent us. Your daughter always prays out of them.

MILLER (whistles). Prays! You've hit the mark. The plain, simple food
of nature is much too raw and indigestible for this maccaroni gentleman's
stomach. It must be cooked for him artificially in the infernal
pestilential pitcher of your novel-writers. Into the fire with the
rubbish! I shall have the girl taking up with--God knows what all--about
heavenly fooleries that will get into her blood, like Spanish flies, and
scatter to the winds the handful of Christianity that cost her father so
much trouble to keep together. Into the fire with them I say! The girl
will take the devil's own nonsen