SCENE--_A Drawing Room fitted up for an evening party--to the left a
card table--doors, C. and L._
_THWAITES, who has finished lighting candles in chandelier at back,
C., steps back to survey the effect._
THWAITES. Now, that's what I call the real thing--the clean grit. The
position of that bokey (_bouquet_) is such, that none but the purest
taste could conceive,--those camellias, chastity itself. A fine
combination! Cutting the turnips and carrots to make ornaments for the
cold tongue; chusing the bokies at Covent Garden Market; mildly
tempering the brilliant light of wax and gas with the soothing hue of
flowers. I have brought all my arts to bear upon this sworry. The
party who is a greengrocer in the morning, is the only perfect waiter
in the evening.
_Enter AGATHA, C._
AGATHA. (L.) So, Thwaites, the room appears quite ready?
THWAITES. (R.) Yes, Miss Agatha; without exaggeration I may venture to
say, we are lit up.
AGATHA. My father has not returned?
THWAITES. No, Miss Agatha, he has not--since he left the house at two
in the afternoon--I haven't the slightest notion where he is gone.