Mar. I protest I could wish—
Alon. Ay, so could I, Sir, that you had made a better Judgment of my Humour: All must out, I have no other way to avoid this Compliment else. Why look ye, Marcel—Your Sister is—Pox, I am ill at Dissimulation, and therefore in plain Terms, I am to be married this very Evening to another.
Mar. This was happy, and has sav’d me an Excuse. [Aside.
But are you in earnest, How is it possible, being so lately come into Madrid?
Alon. Destiny, Destiny, Marcel, which there was no avoiding, tho I mist of Hippolyta.
Mar. Who is it, prithee?
Alon. A Woman I hope, of which indeed I would have been better assur’d; but she was wilful. She’s call’d Euphemia.
Mar. Our next Neighbour, the Daughter of old Carlo.
Alon. The same.
Mar. Thou art happy to make so good a Progress in so short a time, but I am—