PHŒBE. Never mind. Now the sooner you start, the sooner you’ll be at the theatre. (aside) And the sooner poor dear Trip will be liberated. (hurrying ARABELLA on with her shawl) There, now you’re ready.
ARABEL. Yes, now I’m ready.
(LUKE who has been looking on in a very dejected manner, utters a deep sigh, then goes up to ARABELLA, takes her shawl, and places it on a chair, then uttering another deep sigh is about to take off ARABELLA’S hat)
Goodness me, Mr. Sharp, what are you doing?
SHARP. (in a sepulchral tone) My dooty—my melancholy dooty, Miss Arabella. In a word, the theatre is no go—the orders is wasted, and we are disappointed in our hopes.
ARABEL. What! after the trouble of this elaborate toilette! No, I will not be disappointed, as you call it!
PHŒBE. (aside to her) That’s right.
ARABEL. I will go!
PHŒBE. (aside to her) Stick to that.