Handy, jun. Hush! my angel! be composed! that letter will explain. [Giving a letter, noticed by Ashfield.] Lady Handy wishes to see you.
Susan. Oh, Robert!
Handy, jun. At present, my love, no more.
[Exit Susan, followed by Ashfield.
Sir Abel. What were you saying, sir, to that young woman?
Handy, jun. Nothing particular, sir. Where is Lady Handy going?
Sir Abel. To dress.
Handy, jun. I suppose she has found out the use of money.
Sir Abel. Yes; I'll do her the justice to say she encourages trade.—Why, do you know, Bob, my best coal pit won't find her in white muslins—round her neck hangs an hundred acres at least; my noblest oaks have made wigs for her; my fat oxen have dwindled into Dutch pugs, and white mice; my India bonds are transmuted into shawls and otto of roses; and a magnificent mansion has shrunk into a diamond snuff-box.
Enter Countryman.