Col. Turn out the pigs, hey, Mrs. Judith?
Mrs. Jud. If I ever....
Horatia. Go, dear Aunt, precious Aunt, do go.
Sophia. A nice little dish of your own making would be so acceptable.
Barbara. We’ll take care of the Colonel.
Mrs. Jud. I cannot com—pre—hend—I—— [The girls half lead, half push her out.]
Col. You will excuse me, young ladies; I always make a point of looking after my horse myself. [Exit.]
Horatia. [Sinking on a chair.] I am exhausted. Stupid sticks, why did you not assist me?
Sophia. I tried, but....
Barbara. What shall we do now?