Marquis. Yes, beheld her—walking in her garden—sitting negligently in an arbor.
Isabel. But how?—How contrive to see her?—
Marquis. From the top of our house, through a telescope—but, my dear sister, do bring us a little nearer, or I'll purchase a speaking trumpet, and make love to her through it, though my passion be heard by every soul within a quarter of a mile.
Isabel. I tell you I have great hopes.
Marquis. But why not accept of her acquaintance, and prevail on her yourself to see me?
Isabel. I tell you again, the letters I expect from her uncle at Madrid will have more weight than volumes I could say—She dare not disobey him, and must see you.
Marquis. And yet I would not compel her to it—Unless she consents to my acquaintance freely, without being constrained by force, or deceived by stratagem, I had rather have recourse to the top of the house and my telescope again.
Isabel. Do not let your scrupulous honor overcome all your future prospects—Notwithstanding these letters will strongly recommend you, yet it will be with her own consent only she will yield to the recommendation.
Marquis. But when do you expect the letters?
Isabel. Every instant—my servants are now gone to the Post office.