ARABEL. (striving to conceal her alarm) What?
CAPT. H. That noise.
ARABEL. Where?
CAPT. H. (looking suspiciously at ARABELLA, and then pointing to room, R. 2 E.) There.
ARABEL. (quickly) Oh! it’s only Mrs. Sheepshanks, the charwoman, putting my room to rights; she always comes on Mondays.
CAPT. H. This is Friday!
ARABEL. Mondays and Fridays. (aside) I’m more dead than alive!
CAPT. H. Well, as I was going to say—about two months ago I put into Plymouth with my first cargo of herrings, and there I got into company with an old gentleman with a bald head, green spectacles, and an only daughter—the smartest-looking craft I ever clapped eyes on! Well, finding I couldn’t forget her, I determined to follow her to London, got here this morning, called on the old gentleman, made an offer of my hand and my herrings, when, muskets and marlinspikes, what d’ye think he told me? That the young woman I was sweet upon was already engaged to be spliced to some loblolly lubber or other at Cambridge, that she’d never even clapped her precious eyes on!
ARABEL. Rather unfortunate, I must confess.