Mari. Lord! I don't care about fine morals—I'd rather my husband had fine teeth,—and I'm told most women of fashion are of the same opinion.
Vapid. To be sure they are,—but could you really consent to run away with a poet?
Mari. 'Faith—with all my heart—they never have any money, you know, and, as I have none, our distress would be complete; and, if we had any luck, our adventures would become public, and then we should get into a novel at last.
Vapid. Into a prison, more probably—if she goes on in this way, I must dramatize her first,—and run away with her afterwards. [Aside.] Come, are you ready?
Lady W. [Without.] Tell my lord, sir, I'll wait in the library.
Mari. Oh lord! my aunt, what's to be done?
Vapid. What's to be done!—why?
Mari. She mustn't find you here—she'll be the death of us, she is so violent.
Vapid. Well, I'm not afraid—she's no manager.
Mari. If you have any pity for me—here—hide yourself for a moment behind this sofa, and I'll get her out of the room directly.