POS. Never mind—I’m desperate!
MRS. S. So am I—and, therefore, as the only means of preserving my reputation, I gave my hand to him who has compromised it.
(giving her hand to RATCLIFFE.)
POS. What, Charley Ratcliffe?
PEGGY. (aside) Then that’s Mr. C. R. after all.
RAT. (to POSTLETHWAITE) Yes, my dear friend, the gigantic housebreaker, seven feet high, with two pair of pistols in each of his brawny hands, stands before you.
POS. You? Poo—poo! Where are your whiskers?—where’s your imperial?
RAT. In my pocket—ha, ha!
POS. (after a short pause) I say, Master Charley, what sort of a game have you been playing here?
MRS. S. (smiling) A game of fright.