Julia. [Highly incensed.] Helen!
Helen. Bless me!
Julia. I hate you, Helen!
[Enter Modus.]
Mod. Joy for you, fair lady!
Our baronet is now plain gentleman—
And hardly that, not master of the means
To bear himself as such. The kinsman lives
Whose only rumoured death gave wealth to him,
And title. A hard creditor he proves,
Who keeps strict reckoning—will have interest.
As well as principal. A ruined man
Is now Sir Thomas Clifford!
Helen. I’m glad on’t.
Mod. And so am I,
A scurvy trick it was
He served you, madam. Use a lady so!
I merely bore with him. I never liked him.
Helen. No more did I. No, never could I think
He looked his title.
Mod. No, nor acted it.
If rightly they report, he ne’er disbursed
To entertain his friends, ’tis broadly said,
A hundred pounds in the year! He was most poor
In the appointments of a man of rank,
Possessing wealth like his. His horses, hacks!
His gentleman, a footman! and his footman,
A groom! The sports that men of quality
And spirit countenance, he kept aloof from,
From scruple of economy, not taste,—
As racing and the like. In brief, he lacked
Those shining points that, more than name, denote
High breeding; and, moreover, was a man
Of very shallow learning.
Julia. Silence, sir!
For shame!