Tal. “All good violin players do like me; they prelude, not play tunes.”
Ips. “Then Heaven be thanked for our blind fiddlers. You like syllables of sound in unmeaning rotation, and you despise its words, its purposes, its narrative feats; carry out your principle, it will show you where you are. Buy a dirty palette for a picture, and dream the alphabet is a poem.”
Lady Bar., to herself. “Is this my cousin Richard?”
Hither. “Mind, Ipsden, you are a man of property, and there are such things as commissions de lunatico.”
Lady Bar. “His defense will be that his friends pronounced him insane.”
Ips. “No; I shall subpoena Talbot's fiddle, cross-examination will get nothing out of that but, do, re, mi, fa.”
Lady Bar. “Yes, it will; fa, mi, re, do.”
Tal. “Violin, if you please.”
Lady Bar. “Ask Fiddle's pardon, directly.”
Sound of fiddles is heard in the distance.