Pon. Without a motive! No, sir, I believe I know tolerably well the motive—the old story, sir, ha! love!
Char. Love! And pray, sirrah, how do you dare to presume to suppose, that I—that I can be guilty of such a folly—I should be glad to know how you dare venture to think that I——
Pon. Lord bless you, sir, I discovered it before you left the country.
Char. Indeed! and by what symptoms, pray?
Pon. The old symptoms, sir—in the first place, frequent fits of my complaint.
Char. Your complaint?
Pon. Yes, thinking, long reveries, sudden starts, sentimental sighs, fits of unobserving absence, fidgets and fevers, orders and counter orders, loss of memory, loss of appetite, loss of rest, and loss of your senses, if I may be allowed the expression.
Char. No, sir, you may not be allowed the expression—’tis impertinent, ’tis false. I never was unobserving or absent; I never had the fidgets; I never once mentioned the name of my adored Helen; and, heigho! I never sighed for her in my life!
Pon. Nor I, sir; though I’ve been married these three years, I never once sighed for my dear wife in all that time—heigho!
Char. I mustn’t be angry with the fellow. Why, I took you for an unobserving blockhead, or I would never have trusted you so near me.