[Exit, R.
Friskey. I do belave it. Now here's a man who has passed a splendid examination, received his diploma, and settled down in his native village to practise medicine, but so set are the good people that they will never patronize him until age and experience have fitted him to be their medical adviser. Stuff and nonsense! While he is growing he must starve, unless some way is found to move their stubborn will. Not a patient—no, I'm wrong—there's his free patient, Maggie, "The Duchess of Dublin," as Lucy and I facetiously call her. A free patient! If we could only contrive to get one of the high and mighty snobs of the village into his clutches, we'd physic him until the whole population flocked to his office. (Knock, L.) Come in. (Enter Lucy Linden, L.) Ah, Lucy, come in. How d'ye do? (Shake hands.)
Lucy. Where's Adam?
Friskey. The first of men is at his breakfast, replenishing his exhausted system before renewing the toil of practice.
Lucy. You're too bad, Frank. The dear fellow must not be laughed at. You know he has no practice.
Friskey. O, there you're wrong. The first patient has been found.
Lucy. You don't mean it? Who is it—Squire Prim, or Aunt Lucy Spear, Mr. Plumpface, or Mr. Oldbuck? Do tell me. I'm dying to know!
Friskey. A person of greater importance. One with a high-sounding title.
Lucy. Title—Judge Higgins? General Proof? You mysterious fellow, why don't you tell me.
Friskey. It's "The Duchess of Dublin."