MIRA. Waitwell, my servant. MRS. FAIN. He is an humble servant to Foible, my mother’s woman, and may win her to your interest. MIRA. Care is taken for that. She is won and worn by this time. They were married this morning. MRS. FAIN. Who? MIRA. Waitwell and Foible. I would not tempt my servant to betray me by trusting him too far. If your mother, in hopes to ruin me, should consent to marry my pretended uncle, he might, like Mosca in the _Fox_, stand upon terms; so I made him sure beforehand. MRS. FAIN. So, if my poor mother is caught in a contract, you will discover the imposture betimes, and release her by producing a certificate of her gallant’s former marriage. MIRA. Yes, upon condition that she consent to my marriage with her niece, and surrender the moiety of her fortune in her possession. MRS. FAIN. She talked last night of endeavouring at a match between Millamant and your uncle. MIRA. That was by Foible’s direction and my instruction, that she might seem to carry it more privately. MRS. FAIN. Well, I have an opinion of your success, for I believe my lady will do anything to get an husband; and when she has this, which you have provided for her, I suppose she will submit to anything to get rid of him. MIRA. Yes, I think the good lady would marry anything that resembled a man, though ’twere no more than what a butler could pinch out of a napkin. MRS. FAIN. Female frailty! We must all come to it, if we live to be old, and feel the craving of a false appetite when the true is decayed. MIRA. An old woman’s appetite is depraved like that of a girl. ’Tis the green-sickness of a second childhood, and, like the faint offer of a latter spring, serves but to usher in the fall, and withers in an affected bloom. MRS. FAIN. Here’s your mistress. SCENE V. [_To them_] MRS. MILLAMANT, WITWOUD, MINCING. MIRA. Here she comes, i’faith, full sail, with her fan spread and streamers out, and a shoal of fools for tenders.—Ha, no, I cry her mercy. MRS. FAIN. I see but one poor empty sculler, and he tows her woman after him. MIRA. You seem to be unattended, madam. You used to have the _beau monde_ throng after you, and a flock of gay fine perukes hovering round you. WIT. Like moths about a candle. I had like to have lost my comparison for want of breath. MILLA. Oh, I have denied myself airs to-day. I have walked as fast through the crowd— WIT. As a favourite just disgraced, and with as few followers. MILLA. Dear Mr. Witwoud, truce with your similitudes, for I am as sick of ’em— WIT. As a physician of a good air. I cannot help it, madam, though ’tis against myself. MILLA. Yet again! Mincing, stand between me and his wit. WIT. Do, Mrs. Mincing, like a screen before a great fire. I confess I do blaze to-day; I am too bright. MRS. FAIN. But, dear Millamant, why were you so long?