'And now,' cried I, 'now for the grand developement. James Higginson, come forth!'
In a moment the poet was seen, creeping, like a huge tortoise, from under the sofa.
'Mr. Higginson,' said I, 'did not your mother tell you, that this lady here—this amiable lady,' (and I curtsied low to her, and she curtsied still lower to me), 'that this first and best of women,' (and again we exchanged rival curtsies), 'is plotting with a Mr. Betterton to betray me into his hands at the masquerade?'
'Madam,' answered the poet, with a firm demeanour, 'I do solemnly certify and asseverate, that so my mother told me.'
'Then your mother told a confounded falsehood!' cried Betterton, popping out of the closet.
Higginson walked up to him, and knocked him down with the greatest gravity imaginable. The hostess ran at Higginson, and fastened her fangs in his face. Montmorenci laid hold of the hostess, and off came her cap. Stuart dropped into a chair with laughter. I too forgot all my dignity, and clapped my hands, and danced with delight, while they kicked and scratched each other without mercy.
At length Stuart interfered, and separated the combatants. The landlady retired to repair her dismantled head; and his lordship and Higginson to wash their wounds. Betterton too was about to take his departure.
'Sir,' said Stuart, 'I must beg leave to detain you for a few moments.'
Betterton bowed and returned.
'Your name is Betterton, I believe.'