My boy.
Isidore.
[Outside.] Gentlemen, come—come.
Agatha Posket.
[To herself.] Miserable deceiver! This, then, is the club, and the wretched man conspires to drag my boy down to his own awful level. What shall I do? I daren’t make myself known here. I know; I’ll hurry home, and if I reach there before Æneas, which I shall do, I’ll sit up for him.
Lukyn returns.
Agatha Posket.
Is the cab at the door?
Lukyn.
It is.