SWANS. Yes! A letter for Mrs. Swansdown, from—from—fiends and furies!
WOOD. I don’t know either of the gentlemen.
SWANS. From Larkings! Christopher Larkings! There was no signature; but I knew the handwriting! It was a declaration—a declaration! Don’t you hear? (shouting)
WOOD. Yes—yes! Well!
SWANS. I rushed into my library—opened my desk—took out my duelling pistols—put them in my pocket, and—here I am! (savagely and walking to and fro)
WOOD. (following him) Pistols? Oh, I say, Swansdown—Swansdown! Oh, I say!
SWANS. (stopping suddenly) Larkings dies!
WOOD. Yes; but don’t—don’t go and cut him off in the flower of his polka—I mean, his youth!
SWANS. Ah! here comes Mrs. Larkings! She shall know all!