Sir Fran. Well, Sir, I know you don't love compliments.
Man. You'll excuse me, Madam——
Lady Wrong. Since you have business, Sir——
[Exit Manly.
Enter Mrs. Motherly.
O, Mrs. Motherly! you were saying this morning, you had some very fine lace to shew me——can't I see it now?
[Sir Francis stares.
Moth. Why, really Madam, I had made a sort of a promise to let the Countess of Nicely have the first sight of it for the birth-day: but your Ladyship——
Lady Wrong. O! I die if I don't see it before her.
| Squ. Rich. Woan't you goa; Feyther? | Apart. |
| Sir Fran. Waunds! lad, I shall ha' noa stomach at this rate! |