VANE. Ah! (goes up to the table, L. U. E.)
WOFF. Mr. Soaper, Mr. Snarl—gentlemen who would butter and cut up their own fathers!
MABEL. Bless me; cannibals!
WOFF. (with a sweet smile). No; critics.
MABEL. But yourself, madam?
WOFF. (curtseying). I am the Lady Betty Modish, at your service.
CLIVE (aside to Quin). And anybody else’s.
MABEL. Oh dear, so many lords and ladies!
VANE. Pray go, and change your dress, Mabel.