CLEVELAND. Pest on't, I love the wench. I thought, if married to Arbald, and frequently near me, my suit might flourish. But the cunning vixen caught me in my own trap. If I could only trip her now; let me see—let me see.
Enter ARBALD.
CLEVELAND. Ah, Arbald, come hither. How flourishes your suit with Miss
Elsworth?
ARBALD. Badly, I must confess.
CLEVELAND. Unless we prevent it she will be married to this Armstrong before morning.
ARBALD. Is it possible?
CLEVELAND. I have my own reasons for desiring to break up the match between them—to prevent their marriage. Nothing occurs to me at all feasible to that end, but some plan to get introduced into Armstrong's presence a woman disguised as Rose.
ARBALD. And marry them?
CLEVELAND. Ay. Armstrong is on the alert for some scheme to rescue him—would fall into such a net as fishes do—and think it was his mistress' cunning to serve him.
ARBALD. But where is the woman?