Don. How does it appear?
Hip. Why, there is his fiddle, there upon the table, father.
Mrs. Caut. No, busybody, but it is not:—that is my nephew's fiddle.
Hip. Why, he lent it to my cousin: I tell you it is his.
Mrs. Caut. Nay, it may be, indeed; he might lend it to him for aught I know.
Don. Ay, ay: but ask him, sister, if he be a dancing-master, where.
Mrs. Caut. Pray, brother, let me alone with him, I know what to ask him, sure.
Don. What, will you be wiser than I? nay, then stand away. Come, if you are a dancing-master, where's your school? Donde? donde?
Mrs. Caut. Why, he'll say, may be, he has ne'er a one.