Mons. I would no more tell him of it than I would tell you if I had been with a wench, jarni! [Aside.]—She's afraid to be killed, poor wretch, and he's a capricious, jealous fop enough to do't:—but here he comes.—[To Hippolita.] I'll keep thy counsel, I warrant thee, my dear soul, mon petit cœur.
Hip. Peace! peace! my father's coming this way.
Mons. Ay, but by his march he won't be near enough to hear us this half hour, ha! ha! ha! [Don Diego walks leisurely round Monsieur, surveying him, and shrugging up his shoulders, whilst Monsieur makes legs and faces aside.
Don. Is that thing my cousin, sister?
Mrs. Caut. 'Tis he, sir.
Don. Cousin, I am sorry to see you—
Mons. Is that a Spanish compliment?
Don. So much disguised, cousin.
Mons. [Aside.] Oh! is it out at last, ventre?—[To Don Diego.]—Serviteur, serviteur, à monsieur mon oncle; and I am glad to see you here within doors, most Spanish oncle, ha! ha! ha! but I should be sorry to see you in the streets, tête non!
Don. Why so?—would you be ashamed of me, hah—voto á St. Jago! would you? hauh—