Worthnought. Mr. Trueman, I am yours.
Trueman. I deny it.—Heaven forbid, such a thing as you should be either mine or my daughter's!
Worthnought. I should not gain much credit by the alliance, I believe.—You have received my letter, sir, I presume.
Trueman. I think you presume—rather more than becomes you, sir.
Worthnought. I find, the foolish old Put don't like me. [Aside.]—I am sorry you do not approve of my offer; but, but—a—rat me, but I must have her, for all that. Ha, ha, ha;—'foregad, I must, old gentleman.
Enter Old Loveyet.
Loveyet. But I say you shall not have her, sir;—there, I suppose you will have the impudence to call me old gentleman next.
Worthnought. Demme, sir; what have you to do with his daughter?
Loveyet. Nothing; but my son has something to do with her: ha'n't he, friend Horace?
Trueman. Heyday! what does all this mean?—Has any State rejected the new Constitution?