Figaro. Does he?—Well, if he say so, I suppose it is so.
Count. How! What two at a time?
Figaro. Two? Twenty! Why not, my Lord? One sheep begins, and the rest naturally follow: (Flourish of Music without) Come, come, my merry Maidens, don’t you hear the music? Quick, quick, run, run, run.
(Exeunt Susan and Figaro, with the Girls.)
Count. (To the Page) Harkee, little Rascal, begone, instantly; put off your Petticoats, and don’t stir out of your room the rest of the day.—Take care, Sir, I don’t meet you again.
Page. (Putting on his hat) No matter—I bare away that upon my forehead, which would compensate for an age of imprisonment. (Exit joyously).
Count. (Looks at the Countess, who recollects the kiss she had just given the Page) His forehead! What is it he bears away so triumphantly upon his forehead?
Countess. (Embarrassed) A—His Officer’s hat, I suppose. Every new Bauble pleases a Child.
(Going.)
Count. The Procession is coming, will not your Ladyship stay and be a witness of your Favourite’s happiness?