Isabel. Yes—The Countess, from what you have told her, will suppose him a woman, receive him, and consequently suffer a thousand endearing familiarities; till, charmed by the graces of his mind and person, she shall love him without knowing it, and, when she detects the impostor, be unable to part with him.
Inis. And if she is like me, she'll think it the happiest day of her life—but have you prepared your brother how to act his part?
Isabel. He has nothing to act, being the very person he represents, and therefore shall not know of the art by which he is introduced—for, except being a little too attentive to dress and etiquette, a circumstance which, with his youthful appearance, favours our design, he is one of the most amiable young men in the world, and the least idea of imposition would shock his honour, and put an end to my scheme.
Inis. Then he is not to know he is to be taken for a woman.
Isabel. Certainly not—Hush, here he is, now for my credentials. (taking out letters from her pocket.)
Enter MARQUIS.
Marquis. Oh, my dear sister, there are no letters arrived.
Isabel. Yes, here they are—(Gives a packet of letters) my maid has just brought them me.
Marquis. O with what joy I receive them—they are all right?—There will be no mistake I hope?—Nothing to make me appear ridiculous?—I would not appear ridiculous for the world.
Isabel. All is right—No, no.