Const. Then, where's the Injury to the Owner?
Lady Brute. 'Tis an Injury to him, if he think it one. For if Happiness be seated in the Mind, Unhappiness must be so too.
Const. Here I close with you, Madam, and draw my conclusive Argument from your own Position: If the Injury lie in the Fancy, there needs nothing but Secrecy to prevent the Wrong.
Lady Brute. [Going.] A surer way to prevent it, is to hear no more Arguments in its behalf.
Const. [Following her.] But, Madam——
Lady Brute. But, Sir, 'tis my turn to be discreet now, and not suffer too long a Visit.
Const. [Catching her Hand.] By Heaven, you shall not stir, till you give me hopes that I shall see you again at some more convenient Time and Place!
Lady Brute. I give you just hopes enough——[Breaking from him.] to get loose from you: and that's all I can afford you at this time.
[Exit running.
Constant solus.