Twenty shirts a-week, twenty-four pocket- hankercheys, to say noting of thirty crawats and twelve waistcits—indeed, for people as can’t pay their servants !

Gently with the water. Exit Women, L.

Well, he owes me just six thousand three hundred and thirty-seven francs, ten sous. (picks up paper)Ah, I see. I’m in the list. It costs something to have the honour of serving Mr. Brummell—to be chamberlain to His Majesty the King of Calais! But he is a wonderful man! People almost thank him for condescending to be in their debt ; still, much as I esteem the honour, I can’t afford it any longer, nor can the laundress nor can the hairdresser. Eight hundred francs a-year for washing ! Three clean shirts a day—three cravats! Boots blacked soles and all, (shews them) and with such varnish! But then he has such exquisite taste ! why he blackballed a friend of his who wanted to enter his club, because the candidate’s boots were polished with bad blacking I wonder whether the king will do anything for him ? (ring at bell)That’s Mr. Copy, no doubt. We must come to business at once, for it wants only ten minutes to Mr. Brummell‘s dressing hour. Exit Isidore, L.

Exactly so; we’ll come to business at once. I want him to write his life and correspondence, as you know. He has got some telling letters about him:—scandal in high life—always sells. Let me only see him, and I’ll come round him. Would five hundred pounds tempt him ?

Five hundred pounds! I don’t know; he has such sums at times. Anyway make it as heavy as you can. He’s an expensive gentleman; and I will say this for him, he pays when he’s got the money. It takes two glovers to make him a pair of gloves, one for the fingers and one for the thumb.

(looking about room and holding note book, aside) } Wonderful! and so he dresses here, does he ? Ah! pretty place! (makes a note) Furnished regardless of expense— in the first style! (glances at dressing table)

You mustn't approach the dressing table; it’s a sacred spot.

(aside, in note book) Wears a wig.

Well call this afternoon, and I’ll manage to get you an interview. He’s going to have some of the king’s suite with him, I believe; they’ll land soon, we expect so you’d better be off to the port, to see the sight.

I mustn’t miss that, make a capital opening chapter, “The sun had scarce begun to gild,'” &c. Good-bye, my friend—this afternoon then.

Hush!—Quick! It’s Mr. Brummell. Here !— you cannot get out. If he were to see you here he’d throw you out of the window. I hear his footstep. Quick —behind the door, and keep quiet till he is before the glass, When you see him take up the silver tweezers slip out; for nothing will distract him then. Hush!

Isidore, take those dusters away—the chamber maid has forgotten them.

(Isidore picks them up as Brummel draws his chair close to the glass)

(putting head out)Wonderful details! flowered chintz dressing gown! white hand!

(Brummell picks up tweezers)

(aside to Copy)Now then—be off!

(with note book)Silver tweezers, by Jingo! (goes out, L., making a note)

(puts down tweezers , and re-reads letter, snuffs, opening and closing the box with left hand) Strange girl this—the only thing I know against her is, that she takes soup twice. It’s the old story. Her father wants her to marry a fellow who can keep her, and she wants to have a young fellow who can’t. Well, the young fellow who can't is the more interesting of the two. I must ask the father to dinner I suppose—it’s a deuced bore; but it will put him under a heavy obligation. I must make excuses to Ballarat and Gill. (rises and takes his coat off ; and prepares elaborately to dress—proceeds with toilet as dialogue goes on., first going over his face with a mirror and tweezers, then having his wig on, then turning the shirt collar (an immense one)up, and turning it over—dexterously holding his head far back, places cravat, draws down his chin to give it the proper crease —fails with four or five —uses all kinds of preparations , puts on shawl waistcoat, snuff-coloured surcoat, with velvet collar, has dark blue trousers, and the most exquisitely polished pointed boots, which he examines before he puts them on)} Isidore when I’m dressed take my compliments to Mr. Davis, and tell him I shall be happy to see him at dinner to-day.

Very well, sir. (aside)To Davis, a retired fellow from the city! This is a tumble!—I am sorry to trouble you sir, but—

I can’t talk to you to-day, Isidore. Give me a cravat.

(handing one) I am a poor man, and six thousand francs—

I understand, Isidore. We’ll see—we’ll see; don’t disturb me. (second cravat fails—throws it away) } Zounds ! man, haven't you been long enough with me to know that these are not moments when I can speak or listen? Give me another, (gives a third cravat, bell rings) } If that be Mr. Fotherby, show him in. Exit Isidore L. I intend to form that young fellow—there’s stuff in him. I’ve noticed that he uses my blacking. (Brummell. has thrown his head back, and is leisurely creasing his cravat, as enter Fotherby followed by Isidore, L., without distracting his attention — Isidore hushes Fotherby not to speak— this cravat succeeds , and when Brummell has folded it, he turns his head slightly)How d’e do, Fotherby?

This admittance is an honour indeed, sir!

(fixing his eyes upon Fotherby’s feet) My dear fellow, why, what do you call those things upon your feet?

Things on my feet ! Shoes, to be sure !

(turning contemptuously to toilet table)Shoes! I thought they were slippers!

You prefer boots then, sir, doubtless?

(without turning) Well, let me see, Humph! Isidore, which do I prefer, boots or shoes?

The Hessian was always your favourite, sir, in London.

Right, Isidore—so it was. By-the-bye, (Brummell continues his toilet) I have asked Davis here to-day. It was a great sacrifice ; but as you and the young lady want to have the old gentleman melted, I resigned myself. I hope he’ll keep his knife out of his mouth.

We shall be eternally grateful to you, sir. He wanted Helen to become old Armand’ s wife next week.

I think he’s right; and but for one circumstance, I should be on Armand’ s side of the question.

And this circumstance?

The brute has a toothpick in his waistcoat pocket, or in the thing that serves him for a waistcoat—an instrument that, he says, has been in his family the last fifty years. Conceive, my dear Fotherby, an hereditary toothpick! No, Mr. Davis does not deserve that fate. (takes up handkerchief) And now let me give you a bit of advice. Never wear perfumes, but fine linen, plenty of it, and country washing. Look at you now, my good fellow, you are dressed in execrable taste—all black and white, like a magpie, Still, never be remarkable. The severest mortification a gentleman can incur, is to attract observation in the street by his dress. (puts on his coat)Every thing should fit without a fault. You can’t tell what this has cost me—but then it is a coat—while that thing you wear— (examining Fotherby)I really don't know what we can call it.

Still, sir, under your guidance I shall improve. By the way, my mother asked me to invite you to take tea with us in our humble way.

(as he puts on yellow gloves, and surprised) Really, my good young friend, you surprise me. Don’t you know that you take medicine—you take a walk— you take a liberty—but you drink tea! My dear Fotherby, never be bearer of such a dreadful message again, (puts his hat carefully on the side of his head) And now, Fotherby to show you how deep an interest I take in your welfare, you shall give me your arm to the ramparts. They are going, L.— cannon in distance —faint cheers

Monsieur Brummell ! Monsieur Brummell !

Well, sir!

The king has arrived!

(coolly) That is hardly interesting to me: we don’t speak, Crosses and exeunt with Fotherby, L.

Isidore your master is a very great man.

I hope so; he has cost me six thousand francs. Well, as I and Smalls do speak, I’ll run down and see if he’s in the suite, giving Davis his message by the way. Your servant, monsieur. Davis dining with Mr. Brummell! Well, I never thought he would come to that. In Chesterfield Street such a man wouldn’t have been allowed to do duty as a dumb waiter.

Well, of all the dirty, vulgar places I ever stopped into, this Calais is the worst. How poor Isidore manages, even with the cheap brandy, to support existence, is a subjick of wonder. I should like to hunt him up too, and hear how the famous Mr. Brummell jogs on. A feller that spoke writched English—even after having lived a whole year in England, told me it was hereabouts. (looking off L.)Why that must be him. Trim as ever ; but with a sad aspick, denoting a mind ill at ease.

What Isidore!! How are you. (they shake hands)

My dear Smalls —well —as well as I can hope to be under the circumstances. This isn‘t Chesterfield Street !

Chesterfield Street—Holbing beats it! And so you don't like the mounseers— nor the French ladies— nor the brandy!

Nothing. It isn’t a place for a gentleman.

Smalls I was just saying to myself, I shouldn’t like to fold my wings within a hundred miles of it. And Mr. Brummell ?

Ah! times have changed. I have to do his hair all alone now; in Chesterfield Street, we had two hairdressers—one for the front, and one for the back of the head.

He was a great swell. And so you had a dull time of it here?—I should say as much. London for me!—I wouldn’t miss a season in London for anythink.

Yes, and then we had an artist to design the folds of his cravat;—now we dress alone. Oh! better be plain Mr. Brummell in Chesterfield Street, than King of Calais!

King of Calais—Ha! ha! that ain’t bad. But he looks uncommon well still, I hear.

(indignantly) Well still! Smalls, your master may still consider it a precious honour I can tell you, to be seen arm-in-arm with him. It’s a pity, however, Mr. Brummell will condescend to know some of the people he does know here. I can’t mix with them. Why he actually dined the other day with a man who mixes his own salad; and here am I going to ask a fellow named Davis to dine. I’m ashamed of myself. But here they come ! the Beau leaning upon Lord Ballarat’s arm. How proud your master looks!

Proud !—he’s little enough to be proud of. I’ve give him notice. His ancisters was grocers in the time of William the Third ; and I’m going into a family as lent the chair to Canute when he sat upon the shore to tell the waves to fall back. That’s what I call linige. Come along—I saw “ Eau de Vie " written up round the comer, and I want something after that sea! Exeunt, R.

And so, my dear boy, you have a dull time of it.

Horrible ! It’s a squirrel-cage.

You can’t think how we’ve missed you.

I beg your pardon, Harry—you must have been infernal!y puzzled about your waistcoats, when you could copy mine no longer. I see you have fallen into the thunder and lightning style.

Really, my boy, you have been missed. A little while ago, a report of your death was spread all over London.

Mere stock-jobbing Ballarat, mere stock-jobbing, depend upon it! By the way, I want you to give me your interest, to get a place for a young fellow here, I have taken in hand. You will readily do so when I tell you, that, although only four-and-twenty, the manner in which he takes snuff is without a fault.

Well, come and dine with us at three—at Dessin’s, and we’ll talk about it. There might be an opportunity of introducing you.

Your lordship is very kind, but I really cannot feed at that hour. No, no, —you and Gill are to dine with me at five. Everything is arranged, and the Maraschino punch shall be my own care

Ballarat, what can that fellow mean by bowing to you!

To me! he’s bowing to you, I suppose, for I know no one in Calais.

(crossing and touching Brummell on the arm) Don’t forget to-morrow, Brum, pray don’t forget !—goose at four—goose at four ! Exit Stranger, L.

(rushing off, R.,followed by Lord Ballarat and Sir Harry laughing) Hang the miscreant!

I can’t speak to him now, while he is with those gentlemen; but I must know. To-morrow we shall start for the farm, and then it will be too late. In a few days I shall be Armand’ s wife—his as his dog is his, because he can afford to keep me. It will be the old sad story, a crushed heart, sold cheap—as bruised flowers —to a rich bidder, to be turned to household use. Sweeter to all honest souls is the grateful heart, that, like a fresh flower, is cherished for the sweetness of its breath, and not for the gain an iron hand may press from it. Edward should be here.

And is here. Good news, Helen!—your father dines with Mr. Brummell.

Impossible!

Yes, and in company with Lord Ballarat, and Sir Henry Gill, who are in the suite of the king.

What will mamma say! Oh! that charming delightful Mr. Brummell.

Well, we shall hear what your father says, at all events, for here comes Isidore—back. He has been with the invitation.

Well, Isidore, is Mr. Davis disengaged ?

(with great dignity) That question is one, sir, I have never asked anybody since I have been Mr. Brummell's servant.

He has accepted, then?

You will excuse my surprise, Mr. Fotherby; your questions are so extraordinary, that I hardly know how to answer them. Mr. Davis would hardly refuse Mr. Brummell. Excuse me, sir—excuse me. (aside)This is a tumble from Chesterfield Street ! Exit L.

How shall we repay Mr. Brummell ?

By showing him that he has made me happy. Your father will pass this way ; we had better return by the ramparts. (cheers in the distance)The king is at the window of Dessin’s—let us escape the crowd. Exeunt, L.

You are before your time, my fine fellow.

That is the weakness of my calling. So I can’ t see him now ?

No—and for the very feeble reason that he isn’t at home.

Humph!—that’s provoking.

But I have pushed the matter on a bit. I have bored him, as much as Mr. Brummell can be bored, for my money; and more, I have made the tradesmen press. But he has great expectations : he may be sent for, at any moment, to Dessin’s.

By the king !—I must make a note of that.

Now, my plan is this ;—when the gentlemen are at dinner, you must arrive and I’ll announce you as bearing something very important to communicate. Mr. Brummell will think it a message from the king, and excuse himself.

Capital ! Leave the rest to me.—You must know that I have some skill in argument, and shall be able to twist him round my_little finger.

That I am not so clear about: for if you’re a clever fellow, the economy with which you use your good things is most self-denying. Good-bye ! Mind, something handsome is to be said of me in these Memoirs, besides the money down. We must now dress for dinner ; remember, I’m to be handed down to posterity as the pink of valets.

Certainly, Mr. Isidore; your master shall be nothing in comparison with you — only I must have more scandal; there’s nothing like family affairs to sell. If you can throw in some details of an elopement or two, I’ll say Mr. Brummell owes everything to you. Exit C. to L.

Well, I’ve seen birds o’prey in the z’logical gardens, but they are doves—turtle doves, compared with him. Nothing’s too rotten for his maw. All I have to sell him is really and truly dirt-cheap. Here comes Mr,. Brummel, and that puppy Fotherby. How can he be seen with a young fellow who wears lavender water? This place ’ll soon be unsupportable!

Isidore! (aside) Has my Paris wig arrived? Any card or letter ?

No cards, sir. (aside)The wig arrived by the diligence.

(aside)He saw me in the crowd. Is the wig fit to put on ?

I have been examining it for the last half-hour, and as times go, I think it will do. There3 is one of the side locks not quite to my taste.

Ah ! a mat, no doubt —. a door-mat ! (exit Isidore, r.— to Fotherby) You see what a gentleman may be reduced to! It’s the most fortunate thing in the world that I never fell in love I

But were you never in love?—never engaged?

Engaged ?—why yes, something of the kind; but I discovered that the lady positive!y ate cabbage, and so I broke it off. (aside)He’ll never leave Calais without a word?

And so, sir,; you will persuade the old gentleman to postpone Helen' s marriage with Armand—while I—

My dear young friend, I will tell the old gentleman to do so—you must see that I could not possibly think of persuading a person who grows onions in his garden —

We shall be eternally grateful

For three weeks exactly/—from which time you, at all events, will begin to wish that I had confined my attention to my own particular affairs. But the world is ungrateful. I once waved my hand to a saddler's son from White’s window. Well, sir, I owed him five hundred pounds, and he had afterwards the assurance to ask me for it

You astonish me !

Positive fact. So be cautious, young man—and in your way through life—if you wave your hand to such a fellow, let it be over a stamped receipt.

I shall follow your counsel most scrupulously.

(turning fiercely upon Fotherby) There, sir, never let me see you again in those gloves ! These, sir, (showing his)are the only gloves for a gentleman. Pray leave me—I can’t bear the sight of them. Meantime, tell your betrothed that I shall do everything in my power to secure your unhappiness. I have already spoken to Lord Ballarat about you. I told him you were the laziest fellow and the best dresser in the town—in fact, cut out by nature to serve the government. Good-bye —I shall ask you to dine with me some of these days—but not yet awhile— you must work up to that.

By the way, sir, my father says I’m extravagant in dress. Now, what do you think a gentleman may dress upon ?

My dear boy, with strict economy, it may be done for £800 a year!

(aside) Just £200 more than the governor’s entire income!

That’s Brummell‘s friend, I suppose.

Impossible ! he has got a last year’s hat on, my boy!

This year’s in Calais, possibly ! It’s awfu1 to think how far these provincial towns remain behind the age. It’s the same with us. Would you believe it, my dear fellow, a Somerset tailor actually offered me a pattern for a waistcoat last autumn, that I had positively seen in Cork Street, at Davidson’s, twelve months before!

Shocking, my boy. But Brummell‘s snugly lodged here. Ha,! this is the chair given to him by the duchess ; here’s the snuff-box from Athens

And here’s another from Paris. By the way. my boy, I have ordered the dinner from Dessin's; we’ll share the expense.

It’s a good joke, being asked to dinner, and having to send it on before you.

But, poor old boy, he’s very hard up ; and I’m afraid he’ll get little enough out of government,

Hard up! yes, so should I be, if l kept a courier constantly running between Calais and Paris, with wigs, Sevre jars, queer chairs and tables, and all kinds of unnecessaries. Hang it, there's no less than eighteen hundred pounds in these two rooms of his.

And not as many farthings in the lodger's pockets. It must be uphill work with the poor fellow.

Why he’s as long dressing for the Consu1 of Calais, as he was for Carlton House.

The effect will be astounding!

He ought to start a toilette academy.

Not a bad idea. “Twenty pounds a quarter: snuff-taking and bowings five pounds extra. N.B. —The pupils are expected to leave their tweezers, when they quit the establishment ”

Here he comes.

Ready for dinner, my good fellow?

Perfectly. We were admiring your rooms.

Stalls you mean. You see, I’m obliged to shake down on straw now. By the way, I can promise you nothing beyond a feed-of barley, with a handful of hay by way of dessert. But, Harry, you prefer thistles, perhaps.

As you are able to recommend them.

The dinner is ready. Exit c.

Will you follow to the stables ?

Your horses to command ! (Brummell waves them out — aside, as Brummell. exits)Nothing from Dessin’s ! What will the creditors say to-morrow! Exit C.to r.

(sinking into arm chair, with bottle under each arm)} Maraschino punch! I can hardly mix it for Lord Ballarat and Sir Harry. The last time was in Chesterfield Street. It recalls the past, when my perquisites were worth a round five pounds, sometimes a week. Like Queen Elizabuff, Calais will be found engraved upon my heart. (prepares to mix punch — tastes everything frequently) Maraschino !—yes—all right. [takes some) Let me be quite sure— is this Maraschino ? (takes more)Well, really, it’s so long since I’ve had the honor of mixing for Lord Ballarat that I must be quite certain. (takes third glass) } Yes, I think I may move ahead. And now for the — (ring)There’s that confounded Copy !

The gentleman who was here this morning— he who asked for a drop of ale as he went out—wants to see Mr. Brummell.

Show him in here, and tell Mr. Brummell, a gentleman, on most pressing business, wants to see him.

But Mr. Brummell is at

Do as I tell you, sir. Am I master, or not ?

(aside as he exits , C.to L.)What a precious row there’ll be.

True to the minute, you see, Mr. Isidore. Well, well, all right! Any more scandal? — here’s your market. I’ve been turning off a sonnet on the landing ; to-day, for the Peckham Observer, By the way, give us a rhyme for waistcoat

Not I; but I’ll give you a reason for holding your tongue. Stay—here comes Mr. Brummell ; now you be on your best behaviour ; I’ll be off with the punch. Mind—money down, and a handsome word or two—stick to your bargain. Exit , C. to K.

(without) Good-bye, my boys—shameful to be off, but can’t be helped—good-bye!

Confound all duties—cannot dine in peace1. (sees Copy, who has been bowing most energetically) May I ask your business with me ?—I see you are an Englishman.

Have I the honour of addressing Beau—I mean Mr. Brummell?

My name is Brummell.

The British public, sir

Sir, if you can’t tell me your business without a preliminary essay, my servant must shew you the door at once.

I will be brief, sir. I am a most humble compiler—

Is it a subscription ?

No sir, while yet the lamp burns—while still —

Mr. Copy when I wish for a theatrica1 exhibition, I take a box at the theatre. In a word, your business. You told my servant, that you had a pressing errand for me.

And so I have. I will be brief —your career has been a deeply interesting one.

And yours, sir, will be a very short one, if you venture to intrude your impertinence

In a word, sir, I am bearer of a pecuniary offer.

State it.

Will you hear me to the end ?

I give you two minutes. (sits and plays with dogs)

Enough. You are in possession of a very valuable correspondence from all kinds of celebrities, from princes of the blood downwards ; your name is known throughout it the length and breadth of Albion ; you can write, we are informed, elegantly. Well, Mr. Brummell, money is a pleasant thing, and I am honored with the duty of offering you the sum of £500 down, for your correspondence on the part of Messrs. (Brummell rings the bell)Sale, Return & Co., if you will

Show this man the door.

But Mr.

(takes up a cane)Good morning sir. I have in my life, had occasion to say good morning to a fellow three times before he took the hint. Now, sir, don’t force me to repeat the lesson I gave that person.

(retiring to door, as Brummell dangles cane, and looks negligently after him—aside as exit)‘Tis enough for a sketch. And to pay him out, I’ll deeply pit him with the small pox!

Brum.

Vermin! I have letters—scandalous ones, too— but the writer shall always say, that they were addressed to a man of honour.

(to_ audience)I have actually taken a glass of wine with this person. It's the best action I have ever done in my life ! Fotherby may well be thankfu1!

, I hope I don't disturb you, Mr. Brummell?

On the contrary, my dear sir; I have to apologise for leaving you so long. I trust you have had your sleep out.

Yes, thankee. But—I say—what a spicy place you've got here, Mr. Brummell. It does remind me, to be sure, of my friend Spout's drawing room. Extraordinary the things people never redeemed.

Oh! indeed—your friend was a connoisseur no doubt. (they sit - coffee is served by Servant)

(emptying coffee into saucer and blowing upon it)} No—a pawnbroker in a splendid way of business.

(starts—aside)Poor Fotherby! the son-in-law of a man who has shaken hands with a pawnbroker !

Yes, and many carriage people.

What people?

Carriage people!

Any peculiar religious sect ? Never heard of them!

Why folk who keep their carriage to be sure.

What, is it the rule to keep somebody else’s? (aside) poor Fotherby—but he will do it Mr. Davis, let us come to business.

My dear sir!

You have a daughter ?

A jewel!

Of course—all daughters are. Now I will not have her married to that booby, Armand.

Mr. Brummell !

No expostulation —I tell you she shall not marry him.

But I

Will you have the politeness to hear me out?— marry her to Armand—and a year hence she’ll elope.

My daughter!

. Your daughter— and I know who’ll be her lover. You’re going to marry a girl of some taste and refinement—who doesn’t dress execrably— who can play without setting one’s teeth on edge—to a mangel-wurzel-rearing lout. Very naturally she’ll throw the mangel- wurzel at his head, and go off with the fellow who can call her eyes twin-stars, and all that sort of thing. Now this mustn’t be—shall not be!

But I have given my consent, and it shall be.

Then, sir, although you may not be prepared for the blow, I must inform you at once, that henceforth we are strangers.

(hesitates—aside)What would my wife say ? no Mr. Brummell at her tea parties! Stay, stay! my dear sir, your notion is worth consideration.

I never had one that was not.

Well, at all events, Armand’s marriage shall not take place yet awhile. We shall see—we shall see! (distant cannon) Why, the King’s off! (runs to window )

(plays with dogs—aside)Without a word!

(from window)I never saw so many people in Calais before! Come—here are the outriders. A word for old friends.

I am engaged with my new friends.

(looking from window) Splendid —splendid !

(makes a poodle beg) Look here, this is my portrait after the design of my old friends, yonder; a shorn poodle, begging ; but I’m hanged if I sit for the picture. (aside) Creditors must wait, (draws his screen and box of scraps towards him—snuffs and prepares to resume his work)

(music continues in the distance—cannon)

The king is off, sir.

Well, Isidore!

, (aside) Prettily turned off; but I can’t afford it any longer.

How graciously His Majesty bows.

(taking up a drawing of a bee, and sticks it upon the cap of a portrait upon screen)There’s the bee for Lord Ballarat’s bonnet.

(aside)At that confounded screen again,. Still, how elegantly he does it. But no, I cannot afford to contemplate it.

He’s gone!

Isidore! I’m going to dress, (throws down scraps—(strolls leisurely off—aside as exit]) I have paid my duty as a subject, and held my dignity as a man. I am a ruined gentleman. Exit, r.

(about to follow as drop falls) Now to put the screw on. Copy shall have the letters yet. (Davis waving his handkerchief out of the window)

A note from Mr. Brummell, madame. (aside)} Money, I suppose, again.

That is the answer.

I thought as much! Exit L. 3 E.

Really, Mr. Brummell begins to tire me. Every other day he sends to borrow money!

Poor old gentleman. He has fallen into a sad state since he gave up his consulship !

You may well say so, indeed, my dear. The very day he took the English arms down from his gate, his creditors rushed upon him in a body. In fact —but it’s a secret.

Well ! Pray tell me. We have no secrets. '

Well, to you I will ; but; I promised not to tell it to a soul, only I’m sure you were not included. Well, my dear, only think, the poor old man has been all the summer in prison.

Impossible!

Too true, my dear. Even then he must be the fine gentleman, and I managed to make an old drummer, one of the prisoners, serve him as valet. But he is a shocking wreck now I can assure you! Here he comes every morning tottering like a man of seventy, and pokes his poor knees into the fire and rubs them, to take the pains out of them. He is a sad sight!

You don’t say so, my dear! And he used to look so very nice, as if his servant always took him out of a band box at the drawing room door.

, Now, my dear, you would think he had stumbled out of the stables. And then, his memory is going, and he is rude to people, and he sits and mutters to himself, and thinks he is with the fine ladies he knew in England.

It’s very dreadful, really. Have you nearly finished that hem ?

About half. And then he is dreadfully poor.

Poor ! how shocking! Do you like this pattern ?

Charming! He makes my heart bleed!

Poor old man ! I bought a blue silk yesterday.

Here he is, no doubt.

A gentleman wishes to speak with you, Madame.

A stranger?

A stranger gentleman I never saw.

Did he give his name?

Mr. Copy, from London.

Well, show him in, though I’m sure I know nobody of that name. '

Some eccentric Englishman, no doubt.

They are a nation of originals!

Has sold his wife possibly—after the fashion of his barbarous country—and come on a continental tour in search of another investment.

(bowing)Madame Gautier, I believe ? (Madame Gautier bows)Could I be favoured with a few words in private ?

Sir ?

He’s certainly an Englishman.

(aside) There’s vanity. —On business, madam, in which you may be of service to an old and esteemed friend of yours.

My dear, I will retire.

In that case, sir, I can give you a few minutes. (aside) What extraordinary beings these English are!

(aside) Doing business with French persons is horrible ! They understand nothing.

(going) You will not be long ?

Not two minutes. Now, sir, I am at your service. Pray be seated.

Madam, you may remember that eighteen years ago —

That is going rather far back, sir. (aside) A Frenchman would have said, “Madame cannot possibly remember.”

(aside)French vanity again.-—Well, ma’am, I remember some eighteen years ago, a friend of yours was a remarkable man.

(aside) What does he mean ?

He was a man whom—in classic phrase—to see was to admire.

Perhaps, sir, you can come at once to the object of your visit ?

I shall not detain you more than two minutes, ma’am. To see was to admire—yes. Well, that great man invented starched cravats—created, in a hydropathic sense, many companions of the bath—for, before his time few people washed. And not content with these gifts to ungrateful posterity —he was the first man to make perfect Maraschino punch. That man, ma’am, is, or I am ill- informed, now a most seedy old gentleman; who has forgotten how to bathe ; who wears a black cravat ; and actually puts the same shirt on—pardon the allusion—twice. He who, in his prime, kept two laundresses and their families.

Well, sir, I trust this is no idle curiosity in the misfortune of a man who, at all events, was a gentleman.

(aside) A cut at me of course—but who knows the ins and outs of French etiquette.

(aside) Just an English manner of blurting out a delicate matter. Well, sir!

Well, ma’am ! This gentleman was the friend of dukes and earls. He was in their confidence. He could, at one time, rise in the pit of the opera—beckon to the Duke of Malvern on the right, and the Earl of Loudwater on the left and more— see them come to him.

(aside)And now it’s more than his nurse will do.

He is in poverty now; yet he has the means of comfort within his grasp. I come to offer him that comfort. He has a correspondence worth £500 at the very least: I am ready to buy it. I made him the offer some ten years ago ; but then there were some peacock feathers left upon him-—and he was proud. Then I was a clerk in the office of Messrs. Sale, Return & Co.; now I am principa1 of the well-known firm of Copy, Proof, & Sons, and can make a better bargain You are Mr. Brummell' s friend, madam, I hear—persuade him to treat.

Mr. Brummell.

Show Mr. Brummell in. You can speak with him yourself, sir.

(aside) I hope he’ll not remember Copy the clerk ; but no, the clerk has vanished from me and I think I look every inch the publisher.

Your servant, madam; I trust you are well. j

(bows, and shuffles across to fire—draws chair unceremoniously before it and sits very close, rubbing his legs)}

Very well. Are you no better?

Queer—very queer. Tut! this fire puts me in mind of that day at White’s, when the Duke of Brompton was waiting in the library, while I washed my hands.

(c. aside)Poor old gentleman, the old story again. (to Copy)He wanders —he tells that story thirty times a day.

(l.)Extraordinary. (goes up to him)} Good day, Mr Brummell.

I don't know you.

A friend from London.

(vacant smile) I have none there. You are merry Sir. (to himself) “Ballarat, my boy,” said the Duke.

Poor, dear old gentleman, speak tenderly to him, sir.

(aside)A publisher speak tenderly to an author— there’s innocence! Mr. Brummell—I have waited today upon Madame Gautier, to ask her to persuade you to honour me with your company at dinner.

(bristling up with pleasure) Well ! let me see.— I'm not engaged.

(aside) The correspondence is mine. I dine early, and if you would permit me the additional honour of offering you my arm, that we may talk about old times

You are very kind. (takes it—bows to Madame Gautier)Madame Gautier, I wish you good morning

Good-bye: we shall see you to-morrow. Your arm chair is at the fireside for you every evening.

Good morning, madame. Excuse my intrusion

, (to himself)Yes—“Ballarat, my boy,” said the Duke.

Gently, sir, gently.

(calling) You may come in, my dear, now.

Here’s a letter from Helen. Her baby is going on capitally, and she and her husband are coming here on their way to Paris, to see their old friend and protector, Mr. Brummell.

They should make haste, my dear, the old gentleman is not long for this world

Poor man. Come, let us prepare rooms for the young couple.

It’s the old man’s time. Every day, regularly for the last four months, as the clock strikes two, has he seated himself at this table. He takes a liqueur and two —exactly two—biscuits. I confess I’m beginning to be tired of it. Politeness is a charming quality but I don’t find that my wine merchant will let me pay his bill with it. My wife says the old man has the most charming manners in the world, even now; but at forty-two liqueurs , and eighty-four biscuits, I think it high time to stop the supplies ; so, to-day, as my wife’s out, I shall be very plain with him. (clock strikes two—looks off, L.)Here he comes, hobbling and muttering to himself. He’s half crazy. Well I believe they’re going to send him to the Sisters, he’ll be comfortable there at all events—but first, I must be paid.

Good morning, Monsieur Petitpain.

Good morning, Monsieur Brummell. (aside) It won’t do today. Absinthe or Vermuth?

Well, no—Maraschino, I think. (exit Petitpain. Brummell seats himself at table and rubs knees) Dinner at four! very good—very good!

(serves surlily)There, monsieur!

(dipping biscuit in liqueur) Fine day, Petitpain.

On the contrary—the wind’s east—and the glass is at rain.

Ha! madame quite well ?—I don’t see her!

No—gone off in a huff to spend the day with her relations.

Tut! tut! dear me—so was Ballarat’s wife that day after we had kept it up at the club, "Ballarat, my boy,” said

(with determination) We’ve heard that story exactly forty-two times, Monsieur Brummell, and to tell you the truth—we’re confoundedly tired of it—there!

(astonished) Petitpain ! upon my word

There now—here’s what I mean in three words

—pay your score. -

Really—really, my dear friend—well—well! in a minute or two—in—tut!I I haven't my purse with me.

Hold—hold! that’s exactly the twenty-third repetition of that story. No—pay down like a man. (holds hand,) Madame is too lenient.

I really have no money with me. This just reminds me of the day when neither Balla ——

Hang Ballarat—if you haven’t the money—I must have security..

Dear, dear me! Here—let me speak with madame. (snuffs)

, She’s out. Now you've a silver snuff box there —given to you by Lord this—or Prince t'other—hand over that.

My dear Petit

You know the way to the prison ?

(shudders —gives it—and goes off, L., his head buried in his hands,)

(snuffing from box—then pocketing box)I call that business !

(tired—puts down box)Here’s a hole again— and all to see a broken beau. This comes of remaining in a parvenu family. Hollo! there—you, mounseer—a glass of eau-de-vie

(with great deference)In an instant, monsieur. Exit, R. C.

Well, they are a polite lot after all—but frivolous—very frivolous.

A glass! why my Sarah Anne couldn’t get it on as a thimble. (tosses off and returns glass to Petitpain, who bows profoundly)

Monsieur finds it good ?

Well, to tell you the truth, it was rather difficult to find at all. By-the-bye—perhaps you can tell me summutt about this Mr. Brummell. I and master have come to have a last look at the old boy.

, (aside)The deuce

Yes—we take a great interest in him—and are going to do wonders for all who have been kind to him. D’ye know anythink of him ?

Why—yes

Then you’re in for something !

(aside) Why didn’t the fellow come ten minutes sooner. But it’s my luck—I locked up my best customer the day before his father died—and he came into his property.

Is he so very low in his luck ?

If it had not been for the kindness of his friends—

Exactly. You look like the milk — (aside) and water—of human kindness—you do. This fellow’s a screw, I know. (looks off ; R.)Halloo ! Why—yes—that’s the snob Fotherby, with a female. Everybody’s come to see the old man just when it’s a matter of profound indifference to him whether any of them comes or not—as I said to my cousins when they paid me a visit after their governor’s bankruptcy.

I’m sure Monsieur Brummell has had the best Maraschino in the house

(picking up portmanteau) He wouldn’t touch any other I know. (going) I needn‘t be bored with Mr. Fotherby’s conversation now at all events:—he may call upon us presently. Good morning ; mounseer, take care you don’t ruin yourself by giving too much eau-de-vie for the money. Exit L.

(cleaning glass) Hang the snuff box!Exit, R. C

This looks like it, “Petitpain !” Yes, here he comes—poor old fellow—very day to lunch, and the people are so kind to him they say—have never asked him for. a sou.

Speak to them, my dear ; we shall hear something more about him.

(aside) Well, it is a beauty !

(aside to Helen) That’s very like Brummell’s snuff-box

Mr. Brummell’s ?

(seeing them, and putting box in pocket)Ho, ho! more strangers. Will monsieur take a lemonade, an orgeat, or a groseille?

Bring a groseille. (Exit Petitpain)I suspect that our friend here is not the good fellow Madame Gautier takes him to be.

Why not ? How can it be Mr. Brummell‘s snuff-box?

Charming innocence; after three years of married life, and five years’ engagement! My dear girl, if I owed Petitpain twenty francs, and wouldn’t pay him— he would grumble. I should vow that I meant to pay him when I had the money. I might swear to a conviction that fair play was a jewel ; still, he would feel more comfortable if I gave him the jewel I wore upon my finger. He might—for of such vulgar stuff are some souls made— he might, I say, prefer my diamond to my honour. Well I suspect he has hinted that preference to our poor friend, Brummell (wrangling heard within) Hallo ! there’s a little exuberance of domestic felicity within. That was Madame Petitpain, I suspect, who passed just now.

I dare say he deserves it.

And judging from the lady, will have more than his deserts. Landlord ! Enter Petitpain, R. C., muttering—serves. Do you know Mr. Brummell ?

(aside) She’s in such a fume. Why, yes, a little. (aside) Here she comes—I hear the clatter of her walnut shells!

(bouncing on, R. C.)A little indeed! Monsieur Brummell is our best customer.

(aside,) She has got the snuff-box!

Indeed. (to Helen)He’s a favourite here, at all events.

Is monsieur a friend of Mr. Brummell.

A most intimate friend.

To whom we owe many obligations.

(aside,) A prince and princess from England no doubt. Did ever a poor wretched creditor press at a worse moment?

Are you likely to see the poor gentleman?

Undoubtedly ; he goes to the asylum to-day, where the Sisters will take care of him for the rest of his days.

Will they take very great care of him ?

(advancing) The best I ——

(pushing him aside—to him)Monster!

(aside,) Tortoiseshell ! '

They are kindness itself, madam. But perhaps monsieur will have the goodness, when he sees the poor old gentlemen, to give him this snuff box. It belongs to him, and he sets a value upon it, I know. My husband should take it to him himself but I can’t spare him this afternoon.

(aside,) Well, I may consider myself fortunate that she keeps me out of livery.

I will do so with very great pleasure. (aside to Helen)I told you so. And now, madame, let me ask you. is not Mr. Brummell somewhat in your debt!?

(energetically) Thirty-three

(pushing him back)A mere trifle, not worth mentioning

But I tell you, madame, that I cannot afford

But I can, sir, and will afford to forego a debt, when the debtor paid while he could. Sir, Mr. Brummell owes us nothing.

I honour your sentiments, madame, but cannot allow you to lose one penny by my poor friend. I think your husband said thirty-three francs. Here they are, sir. (gives them to Petitpain)

(delightedly) Shall I give monsieur a receipt ?

(to Petitpain)Grasping wretch

And now, what have I to pay ?

Pray, sir, give us the satisfaction

Forty-two sous

Here they are. (Fotherb and Helen going , L. Petitpain retains them)

Monsieur has forgotten.

Forgotten—No !

The waiter!

Never—a meaner scoundrel I never met.

(goes in) Wretch ! (slams door in his face)

(cleaning decanter) That’ s a woman to a ringlet. Now when I get in, she’ll make me account for every ha’penny. Exit into cafe, R. c.

Yes, my dear, clean out of his mind—that’s what he’s gone.

Deary me !

Aye, and there be folks as says he was once as neat and tidy as a new sixpence. Now he’s as dirty as a George the First halfpenny!

Deary me !

Aye, child, and he knew lords and dooks —and such like— now it’s anybody as ’ll give him a dinner. It’s time they did something with him—for put up with his going’s on any longer, I cannot ! A nuss’s is a horrid life ain’t it child?

‘Orrid—deary me ! So this very afternoon that’s comin'’, he’s to go ?

Aye, child—the landlord’s goin’ to offer to take him for a walk, which’ll please him—and then take him off to see if the nuns’ll have charity upon him—if not, there's nothin’ but the street. He would’nt go if he know’d it—still he hasn‘t a copper coin—he’s as cunning as any fox. Have a little drop of somethin’ comfortable, child !

Deary me !—at this time of day—but I do feel a sinking!

It’ll do you a world of good, (getting bottle— a knock, L. c.)Lawk ! what an awkward hour for people to call! (knock again)

, Deary me! Perhaps it’s Mr. Brummell.

Not it ! It’s more than he dare do, to knock twice like that. It’s his old man-servant come to take off that there dirty screen, (opens door)

Well, my good woman > the old gentleman is out at last, I see, so that I can take my little security without hurting his feelin’s. When he had the honour of being served by me, he hadn’t anything so vulgar.

Well, to be sure ! Only to think such a snuffy dirty old fellow as Mr. Brummell1 had once such a smart gentleman for servant!

It does seem odd, don’t it?

Odd! I can hardly realize the oomiliation to myself, now, when I look at my own establishment.

(to Old Woman)Mr. Isidore is an ’airdresser my dear.

Surely! (drops him a curtsey)Didn’t know we was honoured by such high company.

Well, my good woman, I think I can say, without brag, that my shop sports two of the very ‘andsomest wax heads in Paris. All I can say is, if I could find a woman anything like either of them, I don’t know as I shouldn’t be inclined to throw myself away. Well, now for the screen.

Take it and welcome. A dirtier bit o’ lumber I never seed

(lifting it)Ah ! to them as doesn’t know its value, and for whom every one of these aristocratic nobs was stuck on, But when I tell you that there was a time when a duchess would ha’ been proud of it, and that hundreds of the aristocracy would give anything for it. I think you’ll agree with me, I'm no fool in taking it, seeing as there’s no other chance of having my wages paid.

Wages ! well it does seem strange to hear such a fine gentleman as you talk of wages.

There take it away. The old man will be in in a minute.

(lifting the screen and going) All right; but he’s quite stupid now, ain‘t he ?

Right down ! Would you believe it—for the last three weeks, he’s been wiping his razors on letters— every one of which, to my sartin knowledge had. a crown upon it!

(aside) There’ s a sell for Copy!—and he’s asked him to dinner! And after hunting for them for ten years!

Then he won't do nothin’ he’s told. He won’t undress—he won’t wash—he won't shave. The only man he’ll obey is a big waiter —and we have to call him up to him—when he’s as gentle as a new-born babe— he is.

It’s a queer wind-up.

Then he’s a passion for iling his old wigs all day, till the ile pours upon the floor. He covered my best cap with it—the nasty creature—once, and didn’t I give it him. (gentle knock) There he is! let him wait a minute.

(about to open door—stops) No—positions has changed. Let him in, my good woman.

Well, I s’pose I must, (throws open door and walks away without noticing Brummell)

Put down that screen, Isidore, and give me my dressing gown. (Isidore moves towards the door, carrying screen ; Brummell rushes from men's arms at him)} Impudent varlet! the duchess! (is caught by Men, and placed exhausted in the old arm chair , R. C.)

Dressing gown ! that’s good—why I never put my own on now-a-days! (to Nurse)Good riddance !

(to Nurse)He fell down in the street, and a neighbour told us where he lived.

Aye—we could make neither head nor tail of his own story.—Something about milords.

Thank you, my men! Exeunt two Men, L. c.

(talking to himself) That screen mustn't’ t go nor the duchess’s arm chair. (turning to nurse)Mind that, nurse, whatever happens to me, this chair and the screen remain. Ha! ha! What would Ballarat say, if

There, never mind them folks. Pull your coat off, and put your dressing gown on, do!

I shall do nothing of the kind, nurse, especially when I've got company! dear me! I hope the ices will be better—the punch I've seen to! The duchess shall sit here

(to Old Woman) That’s how he goes on nearly every day. The high folks he knew have turned his head Sometimes he makes one of the waiters announce a lot of folks, as never come, while he, like an old fool, bows to nobody, and hands nothing to that old chair.

What work it must give you.

(to Brummell)There, take that muddy coat off, nobody's coming to-day.

Leave the room, and see that everything is ready.

Drat it. (rings the bell)I must have the waiter up. He’ll soon manage him.

(rising, totters forward and arranges his shabby dress)Well, now I’m ready ! Hark! I think I hear the first carriage. Sir Harry, no doubt.

Just see to this old man—make him change his coat, for I can’t.

Well, this is the last of it. Master says he may sleep in the streets, but he doesn’t stay here another night if he knows it. They won’t have him at the asylum without money, and he hasn't a rap.

Nor a stick; for there’s little enough left to pay my poor wages.

(to Brummell authoritatively)Come, off with the coat!

. My good fellow, leave it me to-night. I’ve a few friends coming. Hush! there’s the first arrival. Pray, my good sir, see to my guests.

(surlily) Well, let’s humour the old blade once more—he'll be in the streets to morrow.

(to Old Woman) Just notice this tomfoolery, child.

Deary me! it almost frightens me. See how pleased he is.

Sir Harry Gill!

(advancing ceremoniously, and holding out his hand, and coming down, as though talking to somebody at his side)My dear Harry, I’m delighted to see you. Were you at the opera last night?

(to Old Woman) Did you ever hear the like of it?

Here goes again ! (goes as before to door and throws it open)Lord Ballarat!

, (advancing as before , and receiving imaginary visitor) My good fellow, I’m sorry I missed you at the club the other night ; but I went into the duchess’s box, and.

I must stop this. The duchess always comes last, and then he’s satisfied, (throwing open the door, and calling pompously) Her Highness the Duchess of Canterbury.

{ (totters to door,bowing very profoundly , and handing the imaginary duchess to his arm chair—leans over the chair, and bows frequently as he talks) Your highness is too good! This is indeed an honour. Permit me the satisfaction of handing you to your seat. And is the duke well? And little Nutmeg—is his ear better? Poor little fellow! I hope you will allow me to give him a charming little collar I have for him.

There that’ll do! (authoritatively to Brummell)

Come, now they’re all gone—take your coat off.

(starting, and falling into chair) Yes, gone— gone—true—they’re gone! (Waiter helps him to take his coat off) Give me my cap! (Nurse puts his old velvet cap on)

(going) Call me up again, nurse, if he won’t mind you. (loudly) Do you hear what I say, Mr. Brummell ?

(meekly)Yes—yes—I’ll be very good, nurse— I’ll be very good.

Well, it will be a lucky day when we get rid of this business! Exit l. c.

But think of the poor creature turned into the streets! He’d die upon the nighest door-step!

Can’t be helped—out he goes to-night and no mistake ! I’ll nuss him no longer—and the landlord wants the room. The men are comin’ to whitewash it at sunrise to-morrow.

Deary me! Well—good day!

Good-day , child. You’ll find me at home tomorrow. Good-bye ! .

, (tottering across stage to an old bureau, sits before it, and smoothes a wig hanging upon the corner) Dinner at four. Copy—yes, let me see—that’s his name. Nurse. Nurse! my glass and razors—come!

(who had resumed the stocking mending) Drat the old man! (gives him glass, &c.)

Is Mr. Brummell at home.

(with stocking upon hand, points to Brummell) There he is, young man.

(aside)Tut, tut ! Here’s a break down. What a charming last chapter! (advances to Brummell, who proceeds with his shaving) Are you nearly ready, my dear sir ? The dinner will spoil!

(hastening) Dinner! Yes, yes. Ah1. Mr. Copy,I see. In a minute—in a minute. (wipes razor upon letter)

Don’t let me disturb you. I’ll sit and chat with your attendant, while you dress, (aside) Get fruitful details from her. Well, ma’am, the world will have to thank you for your kindness to a great man.

I wants neither the thanks of the world, nor of nobody else. It won’t pay me.

True—true ! Good actions are their own reward.

Don’t talk any of your fine nonsense to me, sir.

Since I’ve come to be of use to Mr. Brummell, ma’am, I think: I might meet with a little more civility. I am ready, as every one knows, to put a round sum in his pocket, if he’ll only be reasonable.

Pray be seated, sir. (aside) Here is a bit of luck at last! (going to Brummell) Is there anything I can do for you, sir.

(astonished, as he wipes razor upon letter)Why, yes—I don’t understand it!

Just listen a minute to me, my good woman, and let Mr. Brummell finish his toilette.

(curtseying) With all the pleasure in life, your honour.

(in low voice)Your master has certain documents of great value to me, and if he will only give them up, here are five hundred golden sovereigns for him !

Documents ! —what’s documents ? I’ve never seen the like of such things here, (helping Brummell on with his coat, kindly)

My good soul—letters!

(turning sharply from Brummell)There, my good man, you may put your gold in your pocket. (picking up soiled letter Brummell has just used)Here’s the last on ’em. The old man has used ’em as razor paper for two months past.

(advancing to Copy) Now, my dear sir, I’m at your service.

(starting up, and planting his hat firmly on his head)Now, sir, you need not trouble yourself. Good morning ! Exit, L. c.

(following him to door) But my good sir, stay —here!

(pushing Brummell) Ugh! you old fool, you!

What does all this mean ? (in passion) Ballarat shall wait upon him to-morrow morning. (throws his hat down—and puts on old velvet cap)

, There, pull your coat off, do! (pulls it off, and puts on dressing gown)

Now he’s completely done up!

(politely to Landlord)Good morning, monsieur, delighted to see

Hang your compliments —I want no more of them.

My good sir, you surprise me !

(to Waiter Get his rubbish together—for out he goes, and no mistake. (to Brummell) Now, Mr. Brummell, can you pay me—or can’t you—or won’t you?

, (nervously) Dear, dear me! (strokes his wigs lying on table)We’ll talk about it.

No we won’t. I’ll have it—or out you bundle this minute.

, (rising with great dignity) Sir, I am a gentleman—a poor one, it is true; and this hand, fleshless as it is—is strong enough to chastise a man who forgets it! (Brummell falls back in chair exhausted)

(to Waiter)Now for it—out with him! (Landlord and Waiter rush forward, and are about to seize Brummell)

(pushing back Landlord and Waiter)Put your hands on the old man at your peril.

Do you know that you are in my house, sir?— stand back!

Do you know that you are in my rooms, sir? (throws paper to him)I think you will find that regular. Leave the room.

(aside) Wonder’ll never cease!. But the old fool’ll spile all again—you'll see.

(aside to Waiter)He’s paid missus the rent— there’s luck! Exit, L. c

A pretty bit of business I've done for myself. Not a sou for the waiter, I’ll bet. Exit. L. C.

(aside to Fotherby)How changed he is! Poor, dear old gentleman I

(advancing to Brummell— who while above. went on, has remained perfectlyy abstracted,arranging a wig)My dear Mr. Brummell—Helen and myself.

Really, you have the advantage of me.

(handing him his snuffbox)You lost this, my dear sir, and Fotherby returns it to you.

Oh, yes—you’re Petitpain. Scoundrel ! I knew your wife would send it back.

Let me try. (to Brummell)You surely remember me , Mr. Brummel.

Madam whoever you are, let me beg you’ll leave this room at once I never admit ladies.

(to Nurse)Is he always so, my good woman ?

Poor, dear, good, kind old gentleman, not allays. He takes on so at times. (aside) He looks a five franc bit at the very least.

Lord Ballarat here ? My lord, welcome !

You arrive at a happy moment.

How is our friend? Your servant, Mrs. Fotherby.

(apart)Gone—quite gone, my lord.

(to Fotherby)Hush! I have arranged everything for the poor old man, as you will see. Talk to him: try to make him understand that he is going to see me, and he’ll follow you. The Sisters have arranged to take care of him for the rest of his days.

(advancing to Brummell)My dear Mr. Brummell, I have—

(looks wildly at Fotherby)Don’t know you in the least.

(to Fotherby)Get him into that, poor old boy! The Sisters will be carefu1 of him.

(to Brummell)This way, Mr. Brummell. I come from Lord Ballarat

(starts up—draws old dressing gown round him and totters—led by Fotherby)Ballarat! dear old boy! Tut! tut! Ballarat! Well, that is kind. But I can’t be seen in this state

No. There, you are among friends, my good sir.

Lord Ballarat’s—that chair! (after a struggle) } Well—be it so. (going earnestly to Lord B.)But Ballarat—mind—when you return to England let them know that, even in this squalor—to his last hour in the work1— Brummell—poor Brummell was a gentleman still. (shakes Ballarat’s hand) I am ready—I am ready. (falls into chair— Characters gather round chair)