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?

MILLA. Long! Lord, have I not made violent haste? I have asked
every living thing I met for you; I have enquired after you, as
after a new fashion.