You make me wretchedly anxious; you delight in doing incautious things. You are incurable.
Paula.
Ah, what a beast I am! [Going to him and kissing him, then glancing at the letters by his side.] A letter from Cayley?
Aubrey.
He is staying very near here, with Mrs.—— Very near here.
Paula.
With the lady whose chimneys we have the honour of contemplating from our windows?
Aubrey.
With Mrs. Cortelyon—yes.
Paula.