Baron.
Do not you bluſh when I talk of him?
Amelia.
No.
Baron.
No—I am ſorry for that. aſide] Have you dreamt of him?
Amelia.
No.
Baron.
Have you not dreamt at all to-night?
Amelia.
Oh yes—I have dreamt of our chaplain, Mr. Anhalt.
Baron.
Ah ha! As if he ſtood before you and the Count to aſk for the ring.
Amelia.
No: not that—I dreamt we were all ſtill in France, and he, my tutor, juſt going to take his leave of us for ever—I ’woke with the fright, and found my eyes full of tears.
Baron.
Pſha! I want to know if you can love the Count. You ſaw him at the laſt ball we were at in France: when he capered round you; when he danced minuets; when he—— But I cannot ſay what his converſation was.
Amelia.
Nor I either—I do not remember a ſyllable of it.
Baron.
No? Then I do not think you like him.
Amelia.
I believe not.
Baron.
But I think proper to acquaint you he is rich,
