SHORT. Leave me to deal with her alone, Sweet; you are not fit to be trusted just at present. Go and dress, go to your own room, and endeavour to calm yourself.
SWEET. Calm myself? Ha, ha! I have a good mind to jump out of the window! Don’t leave me long, or I shall do myself a mischief—I’m in a state of desperation. (seizes a knife from the table—SHORT takes it from him—exit through door, R.)
SHORT. Poor fellow, he’s in a pitiable condition; but he has brought it all upon himself, by over-indulging his wife to that absurd extent that he has completely ruined his own domestic happiness. It might have been just the same with me, if I had been fool enough to walk in his footsteps. I wish I could make out the contents of this letter though! Stay!
Enter MRS. SWEET and MRS. SHORT, as he is about to open the book, door, L. 1 E., in evening dress, both carrying bouquets.
MRS. SWEET. (looking down at the dress she wears) The dress looks as well again so—I am delighted with the alteration.
SHORT. (aside) What tranquility in guilt—she’s a cool hand!
MRS. SWEET. (seeing SHORT) What, not ready yet, Mr. Short? Won’t you be late? Where is my husband?
SHORT. (with an absurd assumption of dignity) He is dressing, madam.
MRS. SWEET. (surprised at his manner) Well, that is a very singular manner of telling me so!
SHORT. I am not aware, madam, that there is anything more singular in my manner than in another’s. (with ridiculous significance, after a pause) Allow me to give you this book.