Sav. What more?
Court. Nothing—for weddings, deaths, and politics, I never talk of, but whilst my hair is dressing. But prithee, Saville, how came you in town, whilst all the qualified gentry are playing at pop-gun on Coxheath, and the country over-run with hares and foxes?
Sav. I came to meet my friend Doricourt, who, you know, is lately arrived from Rome.
Court. Arrived! Yes, faith, and has cut us all out!—His carriage, his liveries, his dress, himself, are the rage of the day! His first appearance set the whole Ton in a ferment, and his valet is besieged by levées of taylors, habit-makers, and other Ministers of Fashion, to gratify the impatience of their customers for becoming à la mode de Doricourt. Nay, the beautiful Lady Frolic, t'other night, with two sister Countesses, insisted upon his waistcoat for muffs; and their snowy arms now bear it in triumph about town, to the heart-rending affliction of all our Beaux Garçons.
Sav. Indeed! Well, those little gallantries will soon be over; he's on the point of marriage.
Court. Marriage! Doricourt on the point of marriage! 'Tis the happiest tidings you could have given, next to his being hanged—Who is the Bride elect?
Sav. I never saw her; but 'tis Miss Hardy, the rich heiress—the match was made by the parents, and the courtship begun on their nurses knees; Master used to crow at Miss, and Miss used to chuckle at Master.
Court. Oh! then by this time they care no more for each other, than I do for my country cousins.
Sav. I don't know that; they have never met since thus high, and so, probably, have some regard for each other.
Court. Never met! Odd!