MRS. FRAIL. Pooh! No, I thank you, I have enough to do to take care of my own. Well, but I’ll come and see you one of these mornings. I hear you have a great many pictures.
TATT. I have a pretty good collection, at your service, some originals.
SCAN. Hang him, he has nothing but the Seasons and the Twelve Cæsars—paltry copies—and the Five Senses, as ill-represented as they are in himself, and he himself is the only original you will see there.
MRS. FRAIL. Ay, but I hear he has a closet of beauties.
SCAN. Yes; all that have done him favours, if you will believe him.
MRS. FRAIL. Ay, let me see those, Mr. Tattle.
TATT. Oh, madam, those are sacred to love and contemplation. No man but the painter and myself was ever blest with the sight.
MRS. FRAIL. Well, but a woman—
TATT. Nor woman, till she consented to have her picture there too—for then she’s obliged to keep the secret.
SCAN. No, no; come to me if you’d see pictures.