Cod. (Within.)—I shall be ready immediately—I am now putting on my fourth waistcoat.
Mrs. Cod. And he wears six—how the man can exist in such a state, I know not; and what is the matter with him, I am equally at a loss to guess; he has been overpowered with nervous agitation, and in a high fever all the morning—has been talking in his sleep all night. I could only catch the words “Dont,—I’ll say any thing—declare any thing—but don’t;”—the man has something on his mind—what can it be?—He surely can’t have committed any crime—a robbery, nor a murder?—oh, the monster! I must question him.—(Enter CODDLE, R. H. D., dressed for a dinner party.)—Well, my dear, are you better?
Cod. Not much—I feel very faint.
Mrs. Cod. Give me your hand.—(CODDLE presents his hand timidly.)—Dear—dear—what a burning fever you are in—your hands are like live coals; and what a pulse.—(Feeling his pulse.)—Heaven’s, Samuel!—you are ill!
Cod. I am.
Mrs. Cod. And the cause is not so much bodily infirmity as mental anxiety.
Cod. Lord!—do you—do you think so?
Mrs. Cod. You are fainting—let me open the windows.
Cod. No—no—not for worlds.