Tom. It's no matter for that; her mother, it seems, Mrs. Sealand, has not agreed to it; and you must know, Mr. Humphry, that in that family the grey mare is the better horse.
Humph. What dost thou mean?
Tom. In one word, Mrs. Sealand pretends to have a will of her own, and has provided a relation of hers, a stiff, starched philosopher, and a wise fool, for her daughter; for which reason, for these ten days past, she has suffered no message nor letter from my master to come near her.
Humph. And where had you this intelligence?
Tom. From a foolish fond soul that can keep nothing from me; one that will deliver this letter too, if she is rightly managed.
Humph. What! her pretty handmaid, Mrs. Phillis?
Tom. Even she, sir; this is the very hour, you know, she usually comes hither, under a pretence of a visit to your housekeeper, forsooth, but in reality to have a glance at——
Humph. Your sweet face, I warrant you.
Tom. Nothing else in nature; you must know, I love to fret and play with the little wanton.
Humph. Play with the little wanton! What will this world come to!