Port. Tap! What sneaking devil art thou? (Opens the door.)
Enter Crowquill.
So! I suppose you are one of Monsieur's customers too? He's above stairs, now, overhauling all his Honour's things to a parcel of 'em.
Crowq. No, Sir; it is with you, if you please, that I want to speak.
Port. Me! Well, what do you want with me?
Crowq. Sir, you must know that I am—I am the Gentleman who writes the Tête-à-têtes in the Magazines.
Port. Oh, oh!—What, you are the fellow that ties folks together, in your sixpenny cuts, that never meet any where else?
Crowq. Oh, dear Sir, excuse me!—we always go on foundation; and if you can help me to a few anecdotes of your master, such as what Marchioness he lost money to, in Paris—who is his favourite Lady in town—or the name of the Girl he first made love to at College—or any incidents that happened to his Grandmother, or Great aunts—a couple will do, by way of supporters—I'll weave a web of intrigues, losses, and gallantries, between them, that shall fill four pages, procure me a dozen dinners, and you, Sir, a bottle of wine for your trouble.
Port. Oh, oh! I heard the butler talk of you, when I lived at Lord Tinket's. But what the devil do you mean by a bottle of wine!—You gave him a crown for a retaining fee.
Crowq. Oh, Sir, that was for a Lord's amours; a Commoner's are never but half. Why, I have had a Baronet's for five shillings, though he was a married man, and changed his mistress every six weeks.