MRS. MARWOOD, MRS. MILLAMANT, MINCING.
MILLA. Sure, never anything was so unbred as that odious man. Marwood,
your servant.
MRS. MAR. You have a colour; what’s the matter?
MILLA. That horrid fellow Petulant has provoked me into a flame—I have
broke my fan—Mincing, lend me yours.—Is not all the powder out of my
hair?
MRS. MAR. No. What has he done?
MILLA. Nay, he has done nothing; he has only talked. Nay, he has said
nothing neither; but he has contradicted everything that has been said.
For my part, I thought Witwoud and he would have quarrelled.
MINC. I vow, mem, I thought once they would have fit.
MILLA. Well, ’tis a lamentable thing, I swear, that one has not the
liberty of choosing one’s acquaintance as one does one’s clothes.
MRS. MAR. If we had that liberty, we should be as weary of one set of
acquaintance, though never so good, as we are of one suit, though never
so fine. A fool and a doily stuff would now and then find days of grace,
and be worn for variety.
MILLA. I could consent to wear ’em, if they would wear alike; but fools
never wear out. They are such _drap de Berri_ things! Without one could
give ’em to one’s chambermaid after a day or two.
MRS. MAR. ’Twere better so indeed. Or what think you of the playhouse?
A fine gay glossy fool should be given there, like a new masking habit,
after the masquerade is over, and we have done with the disguise. For a
fool’s visit is always a disguise, and never admitted by a woman of wit,
but to blind her affair with a lover of sense. If you would but appear
barefaced now, and own Mirabell, you might as easily put off Petulant and
Witwoud as your hood and scarf. And indeed ’tis time, for the town has
found it, the secret is grown too big for the pretence. ’Tis like Mrs.
Primly’s great belly: she may lace it down before, but it burnishes on
her hips. Indeed, Millamant, you can no more conceal it than my Lady
Strammel can her face, that goodly face, which in defiance of her
Rhenish-wine tea will not be comprehended in a mask.
MILLA. I’ll take my death, Marwood, you are more censorious than a
decayed beauty, or a discarded toast:—Mincing, tell the men they may come
up. My aunt is not dressing here; their folly is less provoking than
your malice.