Carl. Did her father know nothing of it?
San. Not a syllable.
Carl. Then, when he believed you to be the Count, how came he to charge you with enjoying her?
San. That is something to the purpose;—but now I think on't, 'tis nothing neither; 'tis but asking her the question, and I know she'll satisfy me.
Carl. And you are resolved to take her word?
San. Rather than yours; for you may have a mind to have a lick at the honey-pot yourself.
Carl. Farewell; you know I have other business upon the stocks. [Seems going out.
San. Stay, Carlos; I am afraid you know something more of this bawdy business than you confess.
Carl. Fecks, not I.