SHARP. Impossible! inclination points one way—dooty another.
ARABEL. (very impatiently) Explain yourself, sir!
(here TRIPTOLEMUS’S legs again appear, swaying about—kick the fire irons down again, and then are suddenly drawn up)
What can be the matter with the fire irons? Again, Mr. Sharp, are you going to explain?
SHARP. I am; the particulars is this ways: my employer, Mr. Cheesecake, has got the purviding of the eatables for Mr. Bunny’s supper this evening; and being, as you know, of a asthmatic constitution, I am obligated to do dooty for him.
(here TRIPTOLEMUS’S legs again appear dangling down, they kick about violently, and one of his shoes is kicked off and falls on the stage, PHŒBE hastily picks it up and pockets it)
ARABEL. What’s that?
PHŒBE. No-thing.
ARABEL. (taking off her hat) Well, I suppose it can’t be helped.
SHARP. And now, Miss Arabella, I’ve an agreeable surprise for you. The particklers is this ways—my govenor, Mr. Cheesecake, is about to retire himself into the bosom of private life; and then, Miss Arabella, I step into the business, and you walk into the Bath buns, apple tarts, ices, acidulated drops, and kisses! (tenderly)