Lady Wrong. To whom, pray?
Moth. Why, is it possible your Ladyship should know nothing of it!—--to my Lord Townly's sister, Lady Grace.
Lady Wrong. Lady Grace?
Moth. Dear Madam, it has been in the New-Papers!
Lady Wrong. I don't like that neither.
Sir Fran. Naw, I do; for then it's likely it mayn't be true.
Lady Wrong. [Aside.] If it is not too far gone; at least it may be worth one's while to throw a rub in his way.
Squ. Rich. Pray, Feyther, haw lung will it be to supper?
Sir Fran. Odso! that's true! step to the Cook, Lad, and ask what she can get us?
Moth. If you please, Sir, I'll order one of my maids to shew her where she may have any thing you have a mind to.