MARLOW. No, no, I tell you. (Looks full in her face.) Yes, child, I think I did call. I wanted—I wanted—I vow, child, you are vastly handsome.
MISS HARDCASTLE. O la, sir, you’ll make one ashamed.
MARLOW. Never saw a more sprightly malicious eye. Yes, yes, my dear, I did call. Have you got any of your—a—what d’ye call it in the house?
MISS HARDCASTLE. No, sir, we have been out of that these ten days.
MARLOW. One may call in this house, I find, to very little purpose. Suppose I should call for a taste, just by way of a trial, of the nectar of your lips; perhaps I might be disappointed in that too.
MISS HARDCASTLE. Nectar! nectar! That’s a liquor there’s no call for in these parts. French, I suppose. We sell no French wines here, sir.
MARLOW. Of true English growth, I assure you.
MISS HARDCASTLE. Then it’s odd I should not know it. We brew all sorts of wines in this house, and I have lived here these eighteen years.
MARLOW. Eighteen years! Why, one would think, child, you kept the bar before you were born. How old are you?
MISS HARDCASTLE. O! sir, I must not tell my age. They say women and music should never be dated.