Doricourt _in his Robe-de-Chambre_.
_Enter_ Saville.
_Sav._ Undress'd so late?
_Doric._ I didn't go to bed 'till late--'twas late before I slept--late
when I rose. Do you know Lord George Jennett?
_Sav._ Yes.
_Doric._ Has he a Mistress?
_Sav._ Yes.
_Doric._ What sort of a creature is she?
_Sav._ Why, she spends him three thousand a year with the ease of a
Duchess, and entertains his friends with the grace of a _Ninon_.
_Ergo_, she is handsome, spirited, and clever. [Doricourt _walks about
disordered_.] In the name of Caprice, what ails you?
_Doric._ You have hit it--_Elle est mon Caprice_--The Mistress of Lord
George Jennett is my caprice--Oh, insufferable!
_Sav._ What, you saw her at the Masquerade?
_Doric._ _Saw_ her, _lov'd_ her, _died_ for her--without knowing
her--And now the curse is, I can't hate her.
_Sav._ Ridiculous enough! All this distress about a Kept Woman, whom any
man may have, I dare swear, in a fortnight--They've been jarring some
time.
_Doric._ Have her! The sentiment I have conceived for the Witch is so
unaccountable, that, in that line, I cannot bear her idea. Was she a
Woman of Honour, for a Wife, I cou'd adore her--but, I really believe,
if she should send me an assignation, I should hate her.
_Sav._ Hey-day! This sounds like Love. What becomes of poor Miss Hardy?
_Doric._ Her name has given me an ague. Dear Saville, how shall I
contrive to make old Hardy cancel the engagements! The moiety of the
estate which he will forfeit, shall be his the next moment, by deed of
gift.
_Sav._ Let me see--Can't you get it insinuated that you are a dev'lish
wild fellow; that you are an Infidel, and attached to wenching, gaming,
and so forth?
_Doric._ Aye, such a character might have done some good two centuries
back.----But who the devil can it frighten now? I believe it must be the
mad scheme, at last.--There, will that do for the grin?
_Sav._ Ridiculous!--But, how are you certain that the Woman who has so
bewildered you, belongs to Lord George?
_Doric._ Flutter told me so.
_Sav._ Then fifty to one against the intelligence.
_Doric._ It must be so. There was a mystery in her manner, for which
nothing else can account. [_A violent rap._] Who can this be? [Saville
_looks out_.]
_Sav._ The proverb is your answer--'tis Flutter himself. Tip him a scene
of the Mad-man, and see how it takes.
_Doric._ I will--a good way to send it about town. Shall it be of the
melancholy kind, or the raving?
_Sav._ Rant!--rant!--Here he comes.
_Doric._ Talk not to me who can pull comets by the beard, and overset an
island!
_Enter_ Flutter.
There! This is he!--this is he who hath sent my poor soul, without coat
or breeches, to be tossed about in ether like a duck-feather! Villain,
give me my soul again!
_Flut._ Upon my soul I hav'n't got it. [_Exceedingly frightened._]
_Sav._ Oh, Mr. Flutter, what a melancholy sight!----I little thought to
have seen my poor friend reduced to this.
_Flut._ Mercy defend me! What's he mad?
_Sav._ You see how it is. A cursed Italian Lady--Jealousy--gave him a
drug; and every full of the moon----
_Doric._ Moon! Who dares talk of the Moon? The patroness of genius--the
rectifier of wits--the----Oh! here she is!--I feel her--she tugs at my
brain--she has it--she has it----Oh! [_Exit._
_Flut._ Well! this is dreadful! exceeding dreadful, I protest. Have you
had Monro?
_Sav._ Not yet. The worthy Miss Hardy--what a misfortune!
_Flut._ Aye, very true.--Do they know it?
_Sav._ Oh, no; the paroxysm seized him but this morning.
_Flut._ Adieu! I can't stay. [_Going in great haste._]
_Sav._ But you must. (_holding him_) Stay, and assist me:--perhaps he'll
return again in a moment; and, when he is in this way, his strength is
prodigious.
_Flut._ Can't indeed--can't upon my soul. [_Exit._
_Sav._ Flutter--Don't make a mistake, now;--remember 'tis Doricourt
that's mad. [_Exit._
_Flut._ Yes--you mad.
_Sav._ No, no; Doricourt.
_Flut._ Egad, I'll say you are both mad, and then I can't mistake.
[_Exeunt severally._