Twill. Thank you, sir. Maybe you’ve got a bit of a letter for me, from my poor mother in Ireland? I’m not particular—the first that comes to hand in the bundle will do.
Post. No, I haven’t one for you.
Twill. Thank you, sir. Maybe you’d have one the next time. Good-bye, sir.
[Postman goes away. Twill, reading the address on the letter.
“Whittington Widgetts, Esquire.” Ow wow! Esquire! the devil a ha’porth less. “Whittington Widgetts, Esquire, Hierokosma, Jarmyn Street.” Hierokosma! That’s French for a tailor’s shop. By the Attorney-General ’twould give a man a headache in his elbow to write such a cramp word. (Smells the letter.) Why then it smells elegant intirely. (Goes to door, R., and enters while speaking.) Mr. Widgetts, here’s a letter for you, sir.
(Returns immediately from the room, re-commences his song, and begins to brush the figure again. A church clock in the neighbourhood strikes eight.)
Wid. Twill!
(Speaking from the door of chamber, R.)
Twill. There, listen to that row. That master of mine will persist in calling me Twill, though he knows my name is Barney Toole, because Twill, he says, is genteeler.