Mrs. H. Let him have the little chamber at the head of the stairs; it is a neat room, and commands a beautiful prospect.
Sol. Very right, very right. But that room has always been occupied by the Count's private secretary. Suppose!—Hold, I have it. You know the little lodge at the end of the park: we can thrust the secretary into that.
Mrs. H. You forget, Mr. Solomon; you told me that the Stranger lived there.
Sol. Pshaw! What have we to do with the Stranger?—Who told him to live there?—He must turn out.
Mrs. H. That would be unjust; for you said, that you let the dwelling to him, and by your own account he pays well for it.
Sol. He does, he does. But nobody knows who he is. The devil himself can't make him out. To be sure, I lately received a letter from Spain, which informed me that a spy had taken up his abode in this country, and from the description—
Mrs. H. A spy! Ridiculous! Every thing I have heard bespeaks him to be a man, who may be allowed to dwell any where. His life is solitude and silence.
Sol. So it is.
Mrs. H. You tell me too he does much good.
Sol. That he does.