Mrs. Sul. O brave sister! o'my conscience, you understand the mathematics already—'Tis the best plot in the world;—your mother, you know, will be gone to church, my spouse will be got to the alehouse, with his scoundrels, and the house will be our own—so we drop in by accident, and ask the fellow some questions ourselves. In the country, you know, any stranger is company, and we are glad to take up with the butler in a country dance, and happy if he'll do us the favour.
Scrub. Oh, madam! you wrong me: I never refused your ladyship the favour in my life.
Enter Gipsey.
Gip. Ladies, dinner's upon table.
Dor. Scrub, we'll excuse your waiting—Go where we ordered you.
Scrub. I shall. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.
The Inn.
Enter Aimwell and Archer.
Arch. Well, Tom, I find you are a marksman.