SOPHY.

Great heavens! when are you off?

BASTLING.

In a fortnight.

SOPHY.

Oh, my poor darling!

BASTLING.

I must see her again to-morrow. I've something serious to propose to
her.

SOPHY.

[_Half in eagerness, half in fright._] Have you?

BASTLING.

But to-morrow it must be alone, Sophy; I can't say what I have to say in
a few hasty whispers, with all your girls flitting about--and perhaps a
customer or two here. Alone!

SOPHY.