_Susan._ I really don’t understand you, my Lord. I thought your affection for my Lady, whom you took so much pains to steal from her old Guardian, Dr. Bartholo, and for love of whom you generously abolished a certain vile privilege.-- _Count._ For which all the young girls are very sorry; are they not? _Susan._ No indeed, my Lord--I thought, my Lord, I say-- _Count._ Prithee say no more, my sweet Susan, but promise thou wilt meet me this evening, at twilight, by the Pavilion in the garden; and be certain, that if thou wilt but grant me this small favour, nothing thou canst ask shall-- _Basil._ (_without._) He is not in his own room. _Count._ Heavens! Here’s somebody coming! Where can I hide! Is there no place here? (_The Count runs to get behind the great chair, Susan keeps between him and the Page, who steals away as the Count advances, leaps into the great chair, with his legs doubled under him, and is covered over with the Countess’s gown, by Susan._) _Enter_ BASIL. _Basil._ Ah, Susan, Good morrow--Is my lord the Count here? _Susan._ Here! What should he be here for? _Basil._ Nay, there would be no miracle in it if he were: would there, hey gentle Susan? (_Smiles and leers at her._) _Susan._ It would be a greater miracle to see you honest. _Basil._ Figaro is in search of him. _Susan._ Then he is in search of the man who wishes most to injure him--yourself excepted. _Basil._ It is strange, that a man should injure the Husband by obliging the Wife. (_The Count peeps from behind the great chair._) _Count._ I shall hear, now, how well he pleads my cause. _Basil._ For my part, Marriage being, of all serious things, the greatest Farce, I imagined-- _Susan._ All manner of wickedness. _Basil._ That though you are obliged to fast to-day, you might be glad to feed to-morrow, grace being first duly said. _Susan._ Be gone, and do not shock my ears with your vile principles. _Basil._ Yes, my pretty Susan, but you must not suppose I am the dupe of these fine appearances. I know it isn’t Figaro who is the great obstacle to my Lord’s happiness, but a certain beardless Page, whom I surprised here, this morning, looking for you as I entered. _Susan._ I wish you would be gone, you wicked--Devil. _Basil._ Wicked Devil! Ah, one is a wicked Devil for not shutting one’s eyes. _Susan._ I wish you would be gone, I tell you. _Basil._ Was it not for you that he wrote the Song, which he goes chanting up and down the house, at every instant? _Susan._ O yes! For me, to be sure! _Basil._ At least it was either for you, or your Lady. _Susan._ What next? _Basil._ Why really, when he sits at table, he does cast certain very significant glances towards a beauteous Countess, who shall be nameless--But let him beware! If my Lord catches him at his tricks, he’ll make him dance without music.