Who are you?—why don’t you speak? Who let you up here, sir?
TRIPTOLE. (in a plaintive tone) Nobody let me up; I let myself down.
ARABEL. What do you want, sir?
TRIPTOLE. A basin of water, a cake of soap, and a clean towel. (rising, and approaching her—the chair appears all blackened)
ARABEL. Leave this room this moment.
TRIPTOLE. (aside) With a sanguinary vampire and an infuriated uncle ready to pounce upon me; not if I know it. (aside) Leave this room—and this room a room with you in it. (aside) I’ll flatter her a bit. (aloud) You—you that for three long years I have enshrined in the very innermost interstices of this heart! Leave you—you!—pooh, pooh!
ARABEL. Your face is not familiar to me!
TRIPTOLE. How can you possibly tell till I’ve washed it?
ARABEL. Once more, young man, I beg you’ll beat a retreat.
TRIPTOLE. (pretending great emotion) It’s too much—it’s too much! (feeling for his handkerchief in both his coat pockets, one after the other) Allow me. (taking ARABELLA’S handkerchief out of her hand—wipes his eyes, and then his face with it, and returns it, all smudged with black, to ARABELLA) Thank you!