SCA. Quite sure?
SIL. Here is your father coming.
OCT. Oh heavens! I am lost.
SCENE V.—SCAPIN, SILVESTRE.
SCA. Stop, Octave; stop. He's off. What a poor specimen it is! Let's wait for the old man all the same.
SIL. What shall I tell him?
SCA. Leave him to me; only follow me.