Antonio. Niece, I always knew you could not keep your vow—I always knew the very first man that came in your way—crash it would go directly, but let me persuade you to break it by degrees, and not let the world say you made no struggle first.
Countess. Struggle! Now, my dear Uncle, with all your deep discernment, particularly in regard to our sex, to see you at last imposed upon delights me.
Antonio. Imposed upon!
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.