_Selby_. That wager lost, I should be rich indeed-- Rich in my rescued Kate--rich in my honor, Which now was bankrupt. Sister, I accept Your merry wager, with an aching heart For very fear of winning. 'Tis the hour That I should meet my Widow in the walk, The south side of the garden. On some pretence Lure forth my Wife that way, that she may witness Our seeming courtship. Keep us still in sight, Yourselves unseen; and by some sign I'll give, (A finger held up, or a kerchief waved,) You'll know your wager won--then break upon us, As if by chance. _Lucy_. I apprehend your meaning-- _Selby_. And may you prove a true Cassandra here, Though my poor acres smart for't, wagering sister. [_Exeunt_. * * * * * SCENE.--_Mrs. Selby's chamber._ MRS. FRAMPTON. KATHERINE. _Mrs. F._ Did I express myself in terms so strong? _Kath._ As nothing could have more affrighted me. _Mrs. F._ Think it a hurt friend's jest, in retribution Of a suspected cooling hospitality. And, for my staying here, or going hence, (Now I remember something of our argument,) Selby and I can settle that between us. You look amazed. What if your husband, child, Himself has courted me to stay? _Kath._ You move My wonder and my pleasure equally. _Mrs. F._ Yes, courted me to stay, waived all objections, Made it a favor to yourselves; not me, His troublesome guest, as you surmised. Child, child, When I recall his flattering welcome, I Begin to think the burden of my presence Was-- _Kath_. What, for Heaven-- _Mrs. F._ A little, little spice Of jealousy--that's all--an honest pretext, No wife need blush for. Say that you should see, (As oftentimes we widows take such freedoms, Yet still on this side virtue,) in a jest Your husband pat me on the cheek, or steal A kiss, while you were by,--not else, for virtue's sake. _Kath._ I could endure all this, thinking my husband Meant it in sport-- _Mrs. F._ But if in downright earnest (Putting myself out of the question here) Your Selby, as I partly do suspect, Own'd a divided heart-- _Kath._ My own would break-- _Mrs. F._ Why, what a blind and witless fool it is, That will not see its gains, its infinite gains-- _Kath._ Gain in a loss. Or mirth in utter desolation! _Mrs. F._ He doating on a face--suppose it mine, Or any other's tolerably fair-- What need you care about a senseless secret? _Kath._ Perplex'd and fearful woman! I in part Fathom your dangerous meaning. You have broke The worse than iron band, fretting the soul, By which you held me captive. Whether my husband _Is_ what you gave him out, or your fool'd fancy But dreams he is so, either way I am free. _Mrs. F._ It talks it bravely, blazons out its shame; A very heroine while on its knees; Rowe's Penitent, an absolute Calista?