Countess. Yes; for this self-same Marquis is a woman.
Antonio. A woman!
Countess. Yes; this "fine, elegant creature."
Antonio. That is, then, the very reason why I thought her so—"a fine creature,"—now that is intuition, instinct, love without knowing it—But, my dear niece, are you sure you are right? Are you sure you don't deceive me? Don't disappoint me—I can't bear a disappointment in a matter like this—I am vastly pleased, and a disappointment might be fatal.
Countess. I assure you again a woman—sister to the Marquis—and has undertaken this scheme purely to make love to me, and turn me into ridicule.
Antonio. Now I think of it again, she was devilish awkward—and I believe wore her sword on the wrong side.
Countess. It is she herself depend upon it.
Antonio. To be sure it is—and I'll be hang'd if it did not strike me to be a woman the moment I laid my eyes on her—for she came up to me slipping and sliding, and tossing her head, just as the fine ladies do. (Mimicks.) Well—But what do you intend to do? I know what I intend to do.
Countess. I shall carry on the scheme, and pretend to be deceived, till I turn the joke she designs for me, on herself.
Antonio. Yes; and I intend to have my joke too.