WAIT. Sure? Am I here? Do I live? Do I love this pearl of India? I have twenty letters in my pocket from him in the same character. LADY. How? FOIB. Oh, what luck it is, Sir Rowland, that you were present at this juncture! This was the business that brought Mr. Mirabell disguised to Madam Millamant this afternoon. I thought something was contriving, when he stole by me and would have hid his face. LADY. How, how? I heard the villain was in the house indeed; and now I remember, my niece went away abruptly when Sir Wilfull was to have made his addresses. FOIB. Then, then, madam, Mr. Mirabell waited for her in her chamber; but I would not tell your ladyship to discompose you when you were to receive Sir Rowland. WAIT. Enough, his date is short. FOIB. No, good Sir Rowland, don’t incur the law. WAIT. Law? I care not for law. I can but die, and ’tis in a good cause. My lady shall be satisfied of my truth and innocence, though it cost me my life. LADY. No, dear Sir Rowland, don’t fight: if you should be killed I must never show my face; or hanged,—oh, consider my reputation, Sir Rowland. No, you shan’t fight: I’ll go in and examine my niece; I’ll make her confess. I conjure you, Sir Rowland, by all your love not to fight. WAIT. I am charmed, madam; I obey. But some proof you must let me give you: I’ll go for a black box, which contains the writings of my whole estate, and deliver that into your hands. LADY. Ay, dear Sir Rowland, that will be some comfort; bring the black box. WAIT. And may I presume to bring a contract to be signed this night? May I hope so far? LADY. Bring what you will; but come alive, pray come alive. Oh, this is a happy discovery. WAIT. Dead or alive I’ll come—and married we will be in spite of treachery; ay, and get an heir that shall defeat the last remaining glimpse of hope in my abandoned nephew. Come, my buxom widow: E’er long you shall substantial proof receive That I’m an arrant knight— FOIB. Or arrant knave. ACT V.—SCENE I. _Scene continues_. LADY WISHFORT _and_ FOIBLE. LADY. Out of my house, out of my house, thou viper, thou serpent that I have fostered, thou bosom traitress that I raised from nothing! Begone, begone, begone, go, go; that I took from washing of old gauze and weaving of dead hair, with a bleak blue nose, over a chafing-dish of starved embers, and dining behind a traver’s rag, in a shop no bigger than a bird-cage. Go, go, starve again, do, do! FOIB. Dear madam, I’ll beg pardon on my knees.