Cæsar. Pity it was not twenty.
Vasq. Why, a year can make no difference, I should think.
Cæsar. O, yes it does; a year's a great deal; they are so skittish at nineteen.
Vasq. Those who are skittish at nineteen, I fear, you won't find much mended at twenty. Marcella is very grave, and a pretty little, plump, fair——
Cæsar. Ay, fair again! pity she isn't brown, or olive—I like your olives.
Vasq. Brown and olive! you are very whimsical, my old friend!
Cæsar. Why, these fair girls are so stared at by the men; and the young fellows, now-a-days, have a damned impudent stare with them—'tis very abashing to a woman—very distressing!
Vasq. Yes, so it is; but happily their distress is of that nature, that it generally goes off in a simper. But come, I'll send Marcella to you, and she will—
[Crosses, r.
Cæsar. No, no; stay, my good friend. [Gasping.] You are in a violent hurry!