Sir Simon. You drink our claret with him, till his head aches.
Shuff. Your's is famous claret, Baronet.
Sir Simon. You worm out his secrets: you win his money; you——. In short, you are——
Shuff. His friend, according to the next new dictionary. That's what you mean, Sir Simon.
Sir Simon. Exactly.—But, let me explain. Frank, if he doesn't play the fool, and spoil all, is going to be married.
Shuff. To how much?
Sir Simon. Damn it, now, how like a modern man of the world that is! Formerly they would have asked to who.
Shuff. We never do, now;—fortune's every thing. We say, "a good match," at the west end of the town, as they say "a good man," in the city;—the phrase refers merely to money. Is she rich?
Sir Simon. Four thousand a-year.
Shuff. What a devilish desirable woman! Frank's a happy dog!