Messiter.
No trouble, Mr. Blond, thank you. [Sniffing.] Candles—blown out—lately. This is where the light was.
Blond.
Perhaps. My servant, Isidore, sleeps here; he has only just gone to bed.
Messiter.
Oh! [Taking a bull’s-eye lantern from Harris and throwing the light on Isidore, who is apparently sleeping soundly.] Dead tired, I suppose?
Blond.
I suppose so.
Messiter.
[Slightly turning down the covering.] He sleeps in his clothes?