CON. Pansies for thought--Love lies a-bleeding. Have you been walking
London with this bouquet?
BEL. Yes, madame, I have, and have ended by finding out what I sought
to know.
CON. And what is the great discovery you have made? One would almost
imagine it were perpetual motion.
BEL. Mr. Fletcher sent you this bunch of flowers.
CON. The race is not to the swift. You have discovered nothing.
Fletcher did not send me those flowers.
BEL. I beg your pardon; this bouquet was purchased in Regent-street
this morning at 10.45 A.M. The man who bought it was old, and dressed
in a drab hat and black coat. They gave me an exact description of
him, and I recognised him immediately--the copyist who is always at
Fletcher's elbow, and who is literally his right hand.
CON. The copyist purchased it?
BEL. Of course. I'm not a man to be imposed on! Can't humbug me!
CON. And that proves that Mr. Fletcher sent me these flowers.
BEL. Unless we are to believe that this poor fellow amuses himself in
purchasing bouquets worth a sovereign each out of twopence a length.
CON. You have a lively imagination, and make marvellous jumps at
conclusions. Has it never entered the cavity of your head that in
London there may be two men who wear a drab hat and black coat?
BEL. Possibly! possibly! (_Enter HOLDER, C._) But talk of the old
gentleman, &c.; we can know from himself.
HOL. Here is your part, madame.
BEL. (_to HOLDER_) Do you know this bouquet?
HOL. The one I purchased this morning.
BEL. (_to CONSTANCE_) Proof positive!
CON. Well, if Mr. Fletcher did send the flowers, what then?
HOL. It was not Mr. Fletcher who commissioned me to purchase this
bouquet.
BEL. Who then?
HOL. Eh! Who?
BEL. Yes--no humbug!
HOL. (_confused and hesitating_) Oh! it was--hum!
CON. (_aside_) Can Fletcher have divined?
BEL. (_to HOLDER_) Well--go on--Ah! Fletcher is not a man to put his
light under a bushel. Fletcher is a man of imagination--a dramatic
author--an original genius; not a translator of unconsidered trifles.
CON. What a fuss about a few roses.
BEL. _Rose d'amour_, madame. A Fletcher by any other name--I mean, any
other rose is as sweet. Never mind. I don't understand the language of
flowers--no, all humbug--but this I know. There are men who resign
themselves to the part you require them to act, madame. There are
others who refuse to play second to any one, and who, when once they
perceive their position ridiculous, cease to remonstrate, and
respectfully offer to cancel the engagement.
CON. Delightful! Why did you not say so before? What a world of words
it would have saved. "Stand not on the order of going, but go at
once."