Jac. Ay, as sure as e'er he had it, I dare swear for him: But commend me to you for a kind master, that can let your servant play off three hundred pistoles, without the least sign of anger to him.
Beat. 'Tis a sign he has a greater bank in store, to comfort him.
Wild. Well, madam, I must confess I have more than I will speak of at this time; but till you have given me satisfaction——
Jac. Satisfaction! why, are you offended, sir?
Wild. Heaven! that you should not perceive it in me: I tell you, I am mortally offended with you.
Jac. Sure, 'tis impossible.
Wild. You have done nothing, I warrant, to make a man jealous: Going out a gaming in masquerade, at unseasonable hours, and losing your money at play; that loss, above all, provokes me.
Beat. I believe you; because she comes to you for more.
[Aside.
Jac. Is this the quarrel? I'll clear it immediately.
Wild. 'Tis impossible you should clear it: I'll stop my ears, if you but offer it. There's no satisfaction in the point.