MRS. FAIN. I see but one poor empty sculler, and he tows her woman after him.
MIRA. You seem to be unattended, madam. You used to have the beau monde throng after you, and a flock of gay fine perukes hovering round you.
WIT. Like moths about a candle. I had like to have lost my comparison for want of breath.
MILLA. Oh, I have denied myself airs to-day. I have walked as fast through the crowd—
WIT. As a favourite just disgraced, and with as few followers.
MILLA. Dear Mr. Witwoud, truce with your similitudes, for I am as sick of ’em—
WIT. As a physician of a good air. I cannot help it, madam, though ’tis against myself.
MILLA. Yet again! Mincing, stand between me and his wit.
WIT. Do, Mrs. Mincing, like a screen before a great fire. I confess I do blaze to-day; I am too bright.
MRS. FAIN. But, dear Millamant, why were you so long?