Enter Polly, in mask and domino, and Charlie b. d.
Charlie. My own! What can I do to thow my gratitude?
Polly. If you but knew how I have trembled at my unmaidenly imprudence in writing you!
Charlie. My angel, love knowth no prudenth; no boundth can limit it.
Polly. And you don’t scorn and despise me?
Charlie. Thcorn? Dethpithe? Never.
Polly. And you don’t think me unmaidenly?
Charlie. It ith impothible. You are nothing but what ith perfect and beautiful.
Polly (sighing). Ah!
Charlie (sighing). Ah! (Reaches out and takes her hand.) Mith Wortley, did you mean what you thaid in your letter?