Shuff. No more can I. 'Tis the fashion to be absent—that's the way I forgot your little bill. There, run along. [Exit John.] I've the whirl of Bobby's chaise in my head still. Cursed fatiguing, posting all night, through Cornish roads, to obey the summons of friendship! Convenient, in some respects, for all that. If all loungers, of slender revenues, like mine, could command a constant succession of invitations, from men of estates in the country, how amazingly it would tend to the thinning of Bond Street! [Throws himself into a Chair near the Writing Table.] Let me see—what has Sir Simon been reading?—"Burn's Justice"—true; the old man's reckoned the ablest magistrate in the county. he hasn't cut open the leaves, I see. "Chesterfield's Letters"—pooh! his system of education is extinct: Belcher and the Butcher have superseded it. "Clarendon's History of——."
Enter Sir Simon Rochdale.
Sir Simon. Ah, my dear Tom Shuffleton!
Shuff. Baronet! how are you?
Sir Simon. Such expedition is kind now! You got my letter at Bath, and——
Shuff. Saw it was pressing:—here I am. Cut all my engagements for you, and came off like a shot.
Sir Simon. Thank you: thank you, heartily!
Shuff. Left every thing at sixes and sevens.
Sir Simon. Gad, I'm sorry if——
Shuff. Don't apologize;—nobody does, now. Left all my bills, in the place, unpaid.