Hol. It was not Mr. Fletcher who commissioned me to purchase this bouquet.
Bel. Who then?
Hol. Eh! Who?
Bel. Yes—no humbug!
Hol. (confused and hesitating) Oh! it was—hum!
Con. (aside) Can Fletcher have divined?
Bel. (to HOLDER) Well—go on—Ah! Fletcher is not a man to put his light under a bushel. Fletcher is a man of imagination—a dramatic author—an original genius; not a translator of unconsidered trifles.
Con. What a fuss about a few roses.
Bel. Rose d’amour, madame. A Fletcher by any other name—I mean, any other rose is as sweet. Never mind. I don’t understand the language of flowers—no, all humbug—but this I know. There are men who resign themselves to the part you require them to act, madame. There are others who refuse to play second to any one, and who, when once they perceive their position ridiculous, cease to remonstrate, and respectfully offer to cancel the engagement.
Con. Delightful! Why did you not say so before? What a world of words it would have saved. “Stand not on the order of going, but go at once.”