Horeh. I swore to be avenged, and so—(common form again; the shifted bows)—consequently, as a moment's reflection will convince you, the young man on the steps, in the button-'ole and tall 'at, is my lawful son, while the real Viscount is—(presenting Coltsfoot, who advances modestly on his hands)—'ere!
[Renewed sensation.
The Earl. This is indeed a startling piece of intelligence. (To Lord B.) And so, Sir, it appears that your whole life has been one consistent imposition—a gilded lie?
Lord B. Let my youth and inexperience at the time, Sir, plead as my best excuse!
The E. Nothing can excuse the fact that you—you, a low-born son of the people, have monopolised the training, the tenderness and education, which were the due of your Patrician foster-brother. (To Coltsfoot.) Approach, my injured, long-lost boy, and tell me how I may atone for these years of injustice and neglect!
Colts. Well, Guv'nor, if you could send out for a pot o' four arf, it 'ud be a beginning, like.
The E. You shall have every luxury that befits your rank, but first remove that incongruous garb.
Colts. (to Lord B.). These 'ere togs belong to you now, young feller, and I reckon exchange ain't no robbery.
Lord B. (with emotion, to Countess). Mother, can you endure to behold your son in tights and spangles on the very day of his majority?
Countess (coldly). On the contrary, it is my wish to see him attired as soon as possible, in a more appropriate costume.