Hum. Madam, what are your commands here?
Mrs. Fen. Gentlemen, I am a gentlewoman of a very ancient family.
Sev. Very likely, madam; but, indeed, madam, we sit here to provide for the stage, and not to hear pedigrees. If you are of a house of yesterday, and please to-day—you'll pardon me, madam—-that is what we are to mind chiefly; but pray, madam, break into your business.
Mrs. Fen. Why, gentlemen, this young lady in a mask with me is my daughter, and I propose her for the stage; for I am reduced, and starve or beg we must not.
Sev. But, madam, please to show us how your daughter will help to keep us from wanting. Madam, we have a great charge already.
Mrs. Fen. Why, you see, gentlemen, her height is very well; she is neither tall nor short.
Sev. We allow it, madam; but that is not all: she must speak with a good air and grace.—Won't she unmask? Must not we see more than thus much of her?
Mrs. Fen. No, no, gentlemen, we must come to some manner of agreement before you see any further. To be a maid of honour, a waiting lady on your Statiras and Roxanas,[139] or any of your theatrical princesses, she'll deserve twenty shillings a week for mere dumb show—and I'll have assurance of that in case you like her face; or else it shan't be said she was offered to the playhouse.
Sev. Well, but, madam, that is not all; for let her be for dumb show only, her face is not all; she must be well limbed [They whisper and confer.]—she may sometimes be in a boy's dress—a Cupid, a young heir to a great family, a page, or a gentleman-usher.