[Takes out cakes.
Bet. Why don’t you thank his honour?
Land. I did not think you had a daughter so old as that young woman.
Bet. No more I have, sir. She is not my own daughter, though she is as good as one to me.
Land. Some relation, then, I suppose?
Bet. No, sir, none at all.
Land. Who is she, then?
Bet. (whispering). When she is gone out, I will tell your honour.—(aloud.) Go, Fanny, and take some milk to the young calf in the stable.
[Exit Fanny.
Land. A pretty modest-looking young woman, on my word!