“Why, I thank you, Richie,” says the Duke, as easy as any Lord Foppington and his levée, “You’ll welcome me the more when I tell you I come as an ambassador of the greatest lady in London.”
“The Queen?” cries Mr. Rich, trembling with excitement. “Doth her Majesty, honour us at the playhouse? Indeed I never dreamt— We must soften the allusions, your Grace.”
“I forgot the Queen!” says the Duke coolly. “No, I meant her Grace of Queensbury. She’s certainly your greatest lady, Richie, if we consider what she has done for your play.”
Mr. Rich bowed assenting, pushing his cravat into place and wishing the Duke had gave more notice of his coming.
“Well, but it’s thus,” continues the visitor, stretching out his long legs easily in his chair,—“Mrs. Fenton did not return to Queensbury House last night, but sent a billet in place of her charming self. Her Grace commissions me to ask if Mr. Rich knows aught of her doings.”
“Why, yes, my Lord Duke, and was more than a little overset for the moment, but on consideration can’t see that ’twill affect the piece. If she turns a stage lover into a real one ’tis the lady’s pleasure, though I could wish she had chose better while about it.”
“We play at cross-purposes, I perceive!” The Duke sat up straight in his chair.
“Did the little minx not tell her Grace?” Rich was fumbling in his pocket.— “Why—where is it? O, here ’tis. I suspected nothing, being too busy a man to watch the flirtations of my pretty players.”
Constraining himself to quiet, the Duke took the paper coolly and opened it.
“Will my indulgent Mr. Rich forgive his Mrs. Fenton if she tells him that when she returns to the playhouse on Monday his Polly Peachum will be the bride of her Macheath in earnest as in play? ’Twas not necessary to trouble Mr. Rich with the affection that is sprung up, but his worthy heart will sympathise. Indeed I’m so persecuted with men as I must needs have a protector to stand between me and their insults, and Mr. Rich will own I have chose a stout one.