Henry. All gone?—Play, I suppose?
Lack. Ay, my dear fellow! play, and pleasure, and—but what the devil, musty melancholy! Come to sport here at the races, eh? flush?
Henry. Why, 'faith, Lackland, as to cash, my affairs, at present, are little better than your own.
Lack. Ahem! Egad, that's rather unlucky for us both.
Henry. But my mind, my dear Charles! I am this moment the most unhappy—in a word, you see me here an exile, fled from the hands of justice!—You remember my sister Rosa?
Lack. What, little romping Rose, that used to steal our fish, and throw our cards in the fire? Eh, did I dream, or wasn't there a match talked of, between her and Lord Winlove?
Henry. All over, my dear Lackland! guided only by the weakness of her sex, and the art of ours, she was prevailed on by Lord Winlove to take the road to the Continent; I overtook them at Rochester, demanded reparation of my sister's character by an instant marriage—I was violent—my lord's pride, hurt at a charge, which, perhaps, he did not deserve—a pistol was the umpire—he lost his life, and, in apprehension that a verdict might endanger mine, I was compelled to assume the disguise of a woman, to effect my escape.
Lack. Bravo! shot a lord! I wing'd a marquis yesterday—poor Rosa! where is she now?
Henry. I have lodged her in the convent of Villeneuve.
Lack. And have taken the races of Fontainbleau in your way back to Paris?