MIRABELL and FAINALL rising from cards. BETTY waiting.
MIRA. You are a fortunate man, Mr. Fainall.
MIRA. What you please. I'll play on to entertain you.
FAIN. No, I'll give you your revenge another time, when you are not so indifferent; you
are thinking of something else now, and play too negligently: the coldness of a losing
gamester lessens the pleasure of the winner. I'd no more play with a man that slighted his
ill fortune than I'd make love to a woman who undervalued the loss of her reputation.
MIRA. You have a taste extremely delicate, and are for refining on your pleasures.
FAIN. Prithee, why so reserved? Something has put you out of humour.
MIRA. Not at all: I happen to be grave to-day, and you are gay; that's all.
FAIN. Confess, Millamant and you quarrelled last night, after I left you; my fair cousin
has some humours that would tempt the patience of a Stoic. What, some coxcomb came
in, and was well received by her, while you were by?
MIRA. Witwoud and Petulant, and what was worse, her aunt, your wife's mother, my
evil genius--or to sum up all in her own name, my old Lady Wishfort came in.
FAIN. Oh, there it is then: she has a lasting passion for you, and with reason.--What, then
my wife was there?
MIRA. Yes, and Mrs. Marwood and three or four more, whom I never saw before;
seeing me, they all put on their grave faces, whispered one another, then complained
aloud of the vapours, and after fell into a profound silence.
FAIN. They had a mind to be rid of you.
