POM. I do; but he snaps his fingers at me and common sense and the world:—there is no getting rid of him, except in one way. I had this morning the honour, madam, of laying certain propositions at your feet.
WOFF. Oh, yes, your letter, Sir Charles (takes it out of her pocket). I ran my eye down it as I came along, let me see—(letter)—“a coach,” “a country house,” “pin-money.” Heigh ho! And I am so tired of houses, and coaches, and pins. Oh, yes, here is something. What is this you offer me, up in this corner?
[They inspect the letter together.]
POM. That,—my “heart!”
WOFF. And you can’t even write it; it looks just like “earth.” There is your letter, Sir Charles.
[Curtseys and returns it; he takes it and bows.]
POM. Favour me with your answer.
WOFF. You have it.
POM. (laughing). Tell me, do you really refuse?
WOFF. (inspecting him). Acting surprise? no, genuine! My good soul, are you so ignorant of the stage and the world, as not to know that I refuse such offers as yours every week of my life? I have refused so many of them, that I assure you I have begun to forget they are insults.