Lady Car. Psha!—that's worse.
Shuff. Then I must express my meaning in pantomime. Shall I ogle you?
Lady Car. You are a teasing wretch;—I have subjected myself, I find, to very ill treatment, in this petty family;—and begin to perceive I am a very weak woman.
Shuff. [Aside.] Pretty well for that matter.
Lady Car. To find myself absolutely avoided by the gentleman I meant to honour with my hand,—so pointedly neglected!——
Shuff. I must confess it looks a little like a complete cut.
Lady Car. And what you told me of the low attachment that——
Shuff. Nay, my dear Lady Caroline, don't say that I told you more than——
Lady Car. I won't have it denied:—and I'm sure 'tis all true. See here—here's an odious parchment Lord Fitz Balaam put into my hand in the park.—A marriage license, I think he calls it—but if I don't scatter it in a thousand pieces——
Shuff. [Preventing her.] Softly, my dear Lady Caroline; that's a license of marriage, you know. The names are inserted of course.—Some of them may be rubbed a little in the carriage; but they may be filled up at pleasure, you know.——Frank's my friend,——and if he has been negligent, I say nothing; but the parson of the parish is as blind as a beetle.