SCENE II.----_Doricourt_'s.

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._