MILLA. A walk? What then?
SIR WIL. Nay, nothing. Only for the walk’s sake, that’s all.
MILLA. I nauseate walking: ’tis a country diversion; I loathe the country and everything that relates to it.
SIR WIL. Indeed! Hah! Look ye, look ye, you do? Nay, ’tis like you may. Here are choice of pastimes here in town, as plays and the like, that must be confessed indeed—
MILLA. Ah, l’étourdi! I hate the town too.
SIR WIL. Dear heart, that’s much. Hah! that you should hate ’em both! Hah! ’tis like you may! There are some can’t relish the town, and others can’t away with the country, ’tis like you may be one of those, cousin.
MILLA. Ha, ha, ha! Yes, ’tis like I may. You have nothing further to say to me?
SIR WIL. Not at present, cousin. ’Tis like when I have an opportunity to be more private—I may break my mind in some measure—I conjecture you partly guess. However, that’s as time shall try. But spare to speak and spare to speed, as they say.
MILLA. If it is of no great importance, Sir Wilfull, you will oblige me to leave me: I have just now a little business.
SIR WIL. Enough, enough, cousin. Yes, yes, all a case. When you’re disposed, when you’re disposed. Now’s as well as another time; and another time as well as now. All’s one for that. Yes, yes; if your concerns call you, there’s no haste: it will keep cold as they say. Cousin, your servant. I think this door’s locked.