L. Fan. Wittmore in the Garden, sayst thou, with Isabella! Oh perjur’d Man! it was by his contrivance then I was betray’d last night.
Maun. I thought so too at first, Madam, till going to conduct Mr. Knowell through the Garden, he finding Mr. Wittmore there with Isabella drew on him, and they both fought out of the Garden: what mischief’s done I know not.—But, Madam, I hope Mr. Knowell was not uncivil to your Ladyship. I had no time to ask what pass’d between you.
L. Fan. Oh, name it not: I gave him all I had reserv’d for Wittmore. I was so possess’d with the thoughts of that dear false one, I had no sense free to perceive the cheat:—but I will be reveng’d.—Come let me end my Letter, we are safe from interruption.
Maun. Yes, Madam, Sir Patient is not yet up, the Doctors have been with him, and tell him he is not so bad as we persuaded him.
L. Fan. And was he soft and kind?—By all that’s good, she loves him, and they contriv’d this meeting.—My Pen and Ink—I am impatient to unload my Soul of this great weight of Jealousy.— Sits down, and writes.
Enter Sir Patient, looking over her Shoulder a tip-toe.
Maun. Heaven! here’s Sir Patient, Madam.
L. Fan. Hah,—and ’tis too late to hide the Paper; I was just going to subscribe my Name.
Sir Pat. Good morrow, my Lady Fancy, your Ladyship is well employ’d, I see.
L. Fan. Indeed I was, and pleasantly too: I am writing a Love-letter, Sir.—But, my Dear, what makes you so soon up?