sarah departs too.
george. [Stretching himself.] I'm roused.
carnaby. [To abud.] Leave your tools here for a few moments.
abud. I will, sir.
abud leaves them, going along the terrace and out of sight.
carnaby. My head is hot. Pardon me.
carnaby is sitting on the fountain rim; he dips his handkerchief in the water, and wrings it; then takes off his wig and binds the damp handkerchief round his head.
carnaby. Wigs are most comfortable and old fashioned . . . unless you choose to be a cropped republican like my son.
george. Nature!
carnaby. Nature grows a beard, sir.