AMANDA.
You will not tell.
LOVELESS.
Upon my honour, then, I did not ask.
AMANDA.
Nor do you know what company was with her?
LOVELESS.
I do not. But why are you so earnest?
AMANDA.
I thought I had cause.
LOVELESS.
But you thought wrong, Amanda; for turn the case, and let it be your story: should you come home and tell me you had seen a handsome man, should I grow jealous because you had eyes?
AMANDA.
But should I tell you he was exquisitely so, and that I had gazed on him with admiration, should you not think ’twere possible I might go one step further, and inquire his name?
LOVELESS.
[Aside.] She has reason on her side; I have talked too much; but I must turn off another way.—[Aloud.] Will you then make no difference, Amanda, between the language of our sex and yours? There is a modesty restrains your tongues, which makes you speak by halves when you commend; but roving flattery gives a loose to ours, which makes us still speak double what we think.
Enter SERVANT.
SERVANT.
Madam, there is a lady at the door in a chair desires to know whether your ladyship sees company; her name is Berinthia.