Flor. Go on, ma'am, go on—I love oratory in a woman.
Louisa. Gracious Heaven! how have I deserved all this? I see, sir, you avoid me. I see you are indifferent to my fate.
Flor. No, ma'am, you wrong me—but in Italy—observe—we always take these things coolly—now, sir, will you explain?
Willoughby. No, sir, I will not.
Flor. You will not?
Willoughby. No, sir, and I warn you not to listen to the wild ravings of a senseless woman—it may be better for you, sir.
Flor. Why so, Prince Prettiman?
Willoughby. No matter, sir, I will not be amused from my purpose.
Flor. You won't, old Pluto, won't you? then, ma'am, observe! you shall behold my mode of fighting—I'll kill him like a gentleman, and he shall die without a groan;—you'll be delighted, ma'am—I learnt it all in Italy.—Come, Belzebub, are you ready?
Willoughby. 'Sdeath! what can I do? he is drunk, perhaps I may disarm him.