O. Book. He is, indeed, sir; therefore our affairs are now so linked that 'twill be an ill office both to the Newtowns and to us to conceal anything from me that relates to them.
Fred. A man can't be said to conceal what he does not know——But it seems it was Mr. Bookwit gave you this account himself.
O. Book. Yes, sir; I told you, sir, I had it from himself.
Fred. Then I'm sure there was nothing left out; he never tells a story by halves.
O. Book. Why, then, you think my son's a liar.
Fred. Oh fie, sir, but he enlivens a mere narration with variety of accidents; to be plain, his discourse gains him more applause than credit. You could not, I believe, have married your son to a less expensive lady in England than this Mrs. Matilda. I'll be sworn you'll avoid all the charge of gay dress, high play, and stately childbirth. You understand me, sir?
O. Book. I never could see anything in my son that's disingenuous, to put his aged father to this shame.
Fred. Never fret or grieve for it. He told Lovemore this morning such a relation of his feasting ladies, and I know not what, that he has brought a tilt upon his hands to-morrow morning; therefore keep him at home. I'll to his adversary, so we'll convince him of a fault which has so ill (though not intended) consequences.
O. Book. You'll highly oblige me, sir; I'll trouble you no longer. [Exeunt.