Bal. This letter, sir, which I tear in pieces, to conceal the person that sent it, informs me that Plume has a design upon Sylvia, and that you are privy to it.
Wor. Nay, then, sir, I must do myself justice, and endeavour to find out the author. [Takes up a Bit.]—Sir, I know the hand, and if you refuse to discover the contents, Melinda shall tell me.
[Going.
Bal. Hold, sir; the contents I have told you already; only with this circumstance—that her intimacy with Mr. Worthy had drawn the secret from him.
Wor. Her intimacy with me! Dear sir! let me pick up the pieces of this letter, 'twill give me such a power over her pride to have her own an intimacy under her hand.—This was the luckiest accident! [Gathering up the Letter.] The aspersion, sir, was nothing but malice; the effect of a little quarrel between her and Mrs. Sylvia.
Bal. Are you sure of that, sir?
Wor. Her maid gave me the history of part of the battle just now, as she overheard it: but I hope, sir, your daughter has suffered nothing upon the account.
Bal. No, no, poor girl! she's so afflicted with the news of her brother's death, that, to avoid company, she begged leave to go into the country.
Wor. And is she gone?
Bal. I could not refuse her, she was so pressing; the coach went from the door the minute before you came.