ARTH. What then?
SIR F. Oh, then we must borrow a wrinkle from the French! As your uncle won’t hear of your taking a wife of your own, take somebody else’s!—no matter whose. Take mine; she’s the handiest!
ARTH. Don’t be absurd!
SIR F. I’m perfectly serious! All your uncle wants is to snooze away his existence. We must wake the old boy up!!
ARTH. How?
SIR F. By an elopement!! A pretended one, of course, which you shall propose to my wife, and he shall overhear!
ARTH. I propose an elopement to Lady Fritterly? She’ll be indignant!
SIR F. How do you know that? She may feel flattered! At any rate I’ll take all the responsibility!—you may be as fascinating as you choose! Ha! ha!
ARTH. But, man alive, I’m not in the habit of running away with other people’s wives! I shouldn’t know how to begin. Something in this style?—“Please, ma’am, will you run away with me?”
SIR F. Not half tender enough! (Clasping his hands and with exaggerated passion.) “Loveliest of women”—then down on your knee—it don’t matter which—both if you like. Then exclaim, “My bosom’s torn with conflicting emotions”—“my brain is in a whirlwind of agony and despair”—tearing your hair out by handfuls all the time. Don’t forget that!