Don Pasquale made as low a bow as a stout old gentleman could. The timid young lady made him a sweeping curtesy.
“Thank you, sir—your most obedient. Oh, oh.” Here the don was taking her hand.
“Oh loving hand,” muttered the old don.
And while he pranced off after three chairs, there was another laugh, suppressed, from under the veil.
Each chair the doctor set down with a puff and a bang, and at last he sat himself down in the center one.
“What do you think of her?” (in a low voice to the don.)
“What indeed! But that veil?” (in a lower voice to the doctor.)
“Oh! she would not dare to speak to a man, unveiled. Talk to her a little; see if your dispositions agree. Then we will question the veil.”
“Hum—hum—(courage, don, courage)—Am delighted—have the honor—your brother—Dr. Malatesta—pray did you speak?”
Here she got up and made him another curtesy. “Oh—sir your most obedient—sir.”