Helen. Indeed 'tis true. With what a sorry grace
The gentleman will bear himself without
His title! Master Clifford! Have you not
Some token to return him? Some love-letter?
Some brooch? Some pin? Some anything? I'll be
Your messenger, for nothing but the pleasure
Of calling him plain "Master Clifford."

Julia. Helen!

Helen. Or has he aught of thine? Write to him, Julia,
Demanding it! Do, Julia, if you love me;
And I'll direct it in a schoolboy's hand,
As round as I can write, "To Master Clifford."

Julia. Helen!

Helen. I'll think of fifty thousand ways
To mortify him! I've a twentieth cousin,
A care-for-nought, at mischief. Him I'll set,
With twenty other madcaps like himself,
To walk the streets the traitor most frequents
And give him salutation as he passes -
"How do you, Master Clifford?"

Julia. [Highly incensed.] Helen!

Helen. Bless me!

Julia. I hate you, Helen!