Peter. Impossible! it's very true, sir.
Vapid. Gone out! why, I've brought him the epilogue—the new epilogue to Mr What's-his-name's comedy; the very best thing I ever wrote in my life; I knew it would delight him.
Peter. Sir, he has been gone out above these two hours.
Vapid. Then he'll never forgive himself as long as he lives; why, it's all correct—all chaste! only one half line wanting at the end to make it complete.
Peter. Indeed, sir, it's very unfortunate.
Vapid. Unfortunate! I wanted to have heard him read it too; when another person reads it, one often hits on a thought that might otherwise have escaped; then, perhaps, he would have hit on that cursed half line, I have so long been working at.
Peter. Sir, if it is not impertinent, and you'd permit me to read it—
Vapid. You read it!
Peter. Yes, sir, if you'd allow me that honour.
Vapid. 'Faith, I should have no objection,—but wouldn't it lower one's dignity? No, no, Moliere used to read his plays to his servants, so I believe all's regular.—Come, sir, begin.