Falk. A wanderer. Let that suffice.
Sir W. I see you still retain your old antipathy to answering questions, so I shall ask none—Have you been in France, or among the savages? Hey! I remember you had a daughter at school—is she alive? is she merry or miserable? Is she married?
Falk. Zounds what a medley! France and savages! marriage and misery!
Sir W. Ods life, I’m happy to see you! I haven’t been so cheerful or happy for many a day.
Falk. How’s your wife?
Sir W. Hey! thank ye, sir! why that excellent good woman is in high health, in astonishing health! by my troth I speak it with unspeakable joy, I think she’s a better life now than she was when I married her! (in a melancholy tone.)
Falk. That must be a source of vast comfort to you. I don’t wonder at your being so cheerful and happy.
Sir W. True—but it isn’t that—that is, not altogether so: no, ’tis that I once more hold my friend Falkner by the hand, and that my daughter—you remember your little favourite Helen—
Falkner. I do indeed!
Sir W. You are arrived at a critical moment: I mean shortly to marry her—