NIC. And what are we the better for all this?

MR. JOUR. I have no patience with such ignorant women.

MRS. JOUR. Believe me, pack off all those people with their ridiculous
fooleries.

NIC. And particularly that great scraggy fencing master, who fills the
whole place with dust.

MR. JOUR. Goodness me! The fencing master seems to set your teeth on
edge. Come here, and I will show you at once your senseless
impertinence. (_He asks for two foils, and gives one to_ NICOLE.)
Here, reason demonstrative the line of the body. When you thrust in
quart, you have only to do so; and, when you thrust in tierce, only to
do so! That is the way never to be killed; and is it not a fine thing
to be quite safe when one fights against anybody? There, thrust at me
a little to try.

NIC. Well, what? (NICOLE _gives him several thrusts_)

MR. JOUR. Gently! Hold! Oh! Softly. Deuce take the wench!

NIC: You tell me to thrust at you.

MR. JOUR. Yes; but you thrust in tierce before thrusting at me in
quart, and you haven't the patience to wait till I parry.

MRS: JOUR. You are crazy, husband, with all your fads; and this has