Abs. Why? there will be light enough: there will (as Sir Lucius says) be very pretty small-sword light, though it will not do for a long shot. Confound his long shots.

Faulk. But I am myself a good deal ruffled by a difference I have had with Julia. My vile tormenting temper has made me treat her so cruelly, that I shall not be myself till we are reconciled.

Abs. By heavens! Faulkland, you don’t deserve her!

Enter Servant, gives Faulkland a letter, and exit.

Faulk. Oh, Jack! this is from Julia. I dread to open it! I fear it may be to take a last leave!—perhaps to bid me return her letters, and restore—Oh, how I suffer for my folly!

Abs. Here, let me see.—[Takes the letter and opens it.] Ay, a final sentence, indeed!—’tis all over with you, faith!

Faulk. Nay, Jack, don’t keep me in suspense!

Abs. Here then—[Reads.] As I am convinced that my dear Faulklands own reflections have already upbraided him for his last unkindness to me, I will not add a word on the subject. I wish to speak with you as soon as possible. Yours ever and truly, Julia. There’s stubbornness and resentment for you!—[Gives him the letter.] Why, man, you don’t seem one whit happier at this!

Faulk. O yes, I am; but—but—

Abs. Confound your buts! you never hear anything that would make another man bless himself, but you immediately damn it with a but!

Faulk. Now, Jack, as you are my friend, own honestly—don’t you think there is something forward, something indelicate, in this haste to forgive? Women should never sue for reconciliation: that should always come from us. They should retain their coldness till wooed to kindness; and their pardon, like their love, should “not unsought be won.”

Abs. I have not patience to listen to you! thou’rt incorrigible! so say no more on the subject. I must go to settle a few matters. Let me see you before six, remember, at my lodgings. A poor industrious devil like me, who have toiled, and drudged, and plotted to gain my ends, and am at last disappointed by other people’s folly, may in pity be allowed to swear and grumble a little; but a captious sceptic in love, a slave to fretfulness and whim, who has no difficulties but of his own creating, is a subject more fit for ridicule than compassion!

[Exit.

Faulk. I feel his reproaches; yet I would not change this too exquisite nicety for the gross content with which he tramples on the thorns of love! His engaging me in this duel has started an idea in my head, which I will instantly pursue. I’ll use it as the touchstone of Julia’s sincerity and disinterestedness. If her love proves pure and sterling ore, my name will rest on it with honour; and once I’ve stamped it there, I lay aside my doubts for ever! But if the dross of selfishness, the alloy of pride, predominate, ’twill be best to leave her as a toy for some less cautious fool to sigh for!

[Exit.