JULIA  Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker!

Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines?

To whisper, and conspire against my youth?

Now trust me, ’tis an office of great worth,

And you an officer fit for the place.

There. Take the paper.

[She gives back the letter]

See it be returned,

Or else return no more into my sight.

LUCETTA        To plead for love deserves more fee than hate.

JULIA Will ye be gone?

LUCETTA That you may ruminate.

Exit                  (1.2.41-49)

Julia might be putting it on here, but equally, perhaps not; she’s genuinely put out? upset? disconcerted, at least. And this is a form of deflection and distraction, while she works out how she feels. Perhaps. First, an accusation of the almost entirely blameless Lucetta: now by my modesty, a goodly broker! broker makes Lucetta more than just a go-between; Julia’s almost suggesting that Lucetta is acting like a bawd. This is unfair. Modesty is interesting, though. A (very) young woman worrying about being—or being thought to be—immodest? internalised shame, and anxiety, at big, unfamiliar feelings? (But also, setting up a comic set piece.) Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines? are you going to give safe conduct to—the means of my seduction? are you going to facilitate this Man and his Uncontrollable Lusts? do you dare to whisper and conspire against my youth? (Who with? Proteus? Speed?) Julia doesn’t want to be talked about, in any sense, perhaps; shame as acute self-consciousness, as well as suggesting that Lucetta too is somehow plotting her seduction. She’s really getting going now: now trust me, ’tis an office of great worth, procuring innocent maidens, and you an officer fit for the place. You’re making an excellent job of it; it’s absolutely made for you! I hope you’re proud of yourself! There, take the paper! Take the letter back! Take it away! See it be returned, or else return no more into my sight. Give it back to Proteus, or else I’ll—I’ll—never see you again!

Bit rough, responds Lucetta (who might be outraged, too, or else perhaps amusedly tolerant). To plead for love deserves more fee than hate. All I’m doing is delivering a letter from the man who wants to tell you that he loves you; I’m just doing him a favour, helping him along—and that deserves better recompense than abuse. (She’s also suggesting, a little coercively, that love should be repaid with love.) In the mention of the fee, there’s a neat echo and parallel with Speed’s exchanges with Proteus in the previous scene. And clearly, she gets up to go, because Julia’s startled, even panicked: will ye be gone? are you leaving me, in this state? That you may ruminate, a neat, caustic little stichomythic couplet. Just have a bit of a think about it, will you, love? Just calm down and get a grip.