Witwoud. As a physician of good air—I cannot help it, Madam, though ’tis against myself.
Mrs. Millamant. Yet again! Mincing, stand between me and his wit.
Witwoud. Do, Mrs. Mincing, like a screen before a great fire. I confess I do blaze today, I am too bright.
Mrs. Fainall. But, dear Millamant, why were you so long?
Mrs. Millamant. Long! Lord, have I not made violent haste? I have ask’d every living thing I met for you; I have enquir’d after you, as after a new fashion.
Witwoud. Madam, truce with your similitudes—no, you met her husband, and did not ask him for her.
Mrs. Millamant. By your leave, Witwoud, that were like enquiring after an old fashion, to ask a husband for his wife.
Witwoud. Hum, a hit, a hit, a palpable hit, I confess it.
Mrs. Fainall. You were dress’d before I came abroad.
Mrs. Millamant. Ay, that’s true—O but then I had—Mincing, what had I? why was I so long?