SWEET. This bouquet! that you have been feasting your eyes on ever since I have been in the room: that you haven’t had a minute out of your hand! Give it to me! (snatching it out of her hand) See how I prize it too! (he raises his arm, and is about to dash it violently to the ground)
SHORT. (crossing to SWEET, and seizing hold of his arm) Stop—stop, I say! What are you about? Don’t destroy my wife’s bouquet!
SWEET. (after a pause of amazement) What’s that? Your—your wife’s bouquet? Do you mean to say that this—this bouquet belongs to Mrs. Short?
SHORT. To be sure I do? Didn’t I bring it all the way from the City on purpose to make her a present of it?
SWEET. (aside) Weugh! (embraces his wife) Laugh at me again, Fanny! Ha, ha, ha! Scold me—snub me—turn me into ridicule. I’ll never contradict you again as long as I live!
MRS. SWEET. (aside—jogging her husband, and covertly pointing to SHORT) Hush—hush! (to herself) A light breaks in upon me! (to MRS. SHORT) You are safe—there’s some mistake.
SHORT. (aside—looking towards SWEET) What’s the matter with the man—has he taken leave of his senses?
SWEET. (significantly, to MRS. SHORT) Let me restore this bouquet to the rightful owner.
MRS. SHORT. (aside, to MRS. SWEET, taking the bouquet in confusion) What am I to say?
MRS. SWEET. (aside, to MRS. SHORT) Nothing! Now, mind! (aloud) Louisa, dear? What is it?—she’ll faint. Here, Mr. Short, come and help her. Here, smell these salts! There—there! (fanning her—MRS. SHORT sinks fainting into a chair, L.)