Loveyet. Oh, you dear little rogue! With whom, eigh, with whom?—Don't be bashful,—tell them.—I know she means me.
[Aside.
Maria. I beg to be excused from telling that, sir; but I will tell you who it is I would not have.
Loveyet. Aye, that's him.—[Aside, looking at Frankton.]—Well, who is it you won't have, Maria, who is it?
Maria. You, sir.
[Emphatically.
Loveyet. Me, eigh?—me—me, Maria?
Charles. Preposterous infatuation!
Loveyet. D——'d, wanton, treacherous jilt!
[Walks about discomposed.