[Exit.
Ped. Cursed ill-natured of him, not to let me give him one kick.
[Aside.
Don Scipio. Don Fernando, I like you vastly.
Ped. So you ought—Tol de rol.—Who could now suspect me to be the son of a tailor, and that, four hours ago, I was a footman! [Aside.] Tol de rol.
Don Scipio. Son-in-law, you're a flaming beau!—Egad, you have a princely person.
Ped. All the young girls—whenever I got behind—Inside of a coach,—All the ladies of distinction, whether they were making their beds, or dressing the—dressing themselves at the toilet, would run to the windows,—peep through their fingers, their fans I mean, simper behind their handkerchiefs, and lisp out in the softest, sweetest tones, "Oh, dear me, upon my honour and reputation, there is not such a beautiful gentleman in the world, as this same Don Pedrill—Fernando."
Don Scipio. Ha! ha! ha! can't forget Pedrillo.—But come, ha' done with your Pedrillos now—be yourself, son-in-law.
Ped. Yes, I will be yourself, son-in-law, you are sure of that honour, Don Scipio; but pray, what fortune am I to have with your daughter? You are a grey-headed old fellow, Don Scipio, and by the course of nature, you know, you cannot live long.