Ant. Look at my countenance—there’s for you. (Assuming a different air.) Will that do?
Geta. No.
Ant. Well, will this? (Assuming another air.)
Geta. Pretty well.
Ant. Well then, this? (Assuming a still bolder air.)
Geta. That’s just the thing. There now, keep to that, and answer him word for word, like for like; don’t let him, in his anger, disconcert you with his blustering words.
Ant. I understand.
Geta. Say that you were forced against your will by law, by sentence of the court; do you take me? (Looking earnestly in one direction.) But who is the old man that I see at the end of the street?
Ant. ’Tis he himself. I can not stand it. (Going.)
Geta. Oh! What are you about? Whither are you going, Antipho? Stop, I tell you.