HASTINGS. Extremely elegant and degagee, upon my word, madam. Your
friseur is a Frenchman, I suppose?

MRS. HARDCASTLE. I protest, I dressed it myself from a print in the
Ladies' Memorandum-book for the last year.

HASTINGS. Indeed! Such a head in a side-box at the play-house would
draw as many gazers as my Lady Mayoress at a City Ball.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. I vow, since inoculation began, there is no such
thing to be seen as a plain woman; so one must dress a little
particular, or one may escape in the crowd.

HASTINGS. But that can never be your case, madam, in any dress.
(Bowing.)

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Yet, what signifies my dressing when I have such a
piece of antiquity by my side as Mr. Hardcastle: all I can say will
never argue down a single button from his clothes. I have often wanted
him to throw off his great flaxen wig, and where he was bald, to
plaster it over, like my Lord Pately, with powder.

HASTINGS. You are right, madam; for, as among the ladies there are
none ugly, so among the men there are none old.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. But what do you think his answer was? Why, with his
usual Gothic vivacity, he said I only wanted him to throw off his wig,
to convert it into a tete for my own wearing.