[While Dickon holds his pipe—somewhat longer than usual—Ravensbane, with his mouth open as if about to speak, relapses into a vacant stare.]
DICKON [As he lights the pipe for Ravensbane, speaks suavely and low as if not to be overheard by him.] Pardon me. The fact is, my young pupil is sensitive; the wound from his latest duel is not quite healed; you observe a slight lameness, an occasional absence of mind.
RACHEL A wound—in a real duel?
RICHARD Necessitates his smoking! A valid reason!
DICKON [Aside.] You, mistress, know the true reason—his lordship’s heart.
RACHEL Believe me, sir—
RICHARD [To Ravensbane, who is still staring vacantly into space.] Well, well, your lordship. [Ravensbane pays no attention.] You were saying—? [Dickon returns the pipe.] in the matter of fashions, sir—?
RAVENSBANE [Regaining slowly a look of intelligence, draws himself up with affronted hauteur.] Permit me! [Puffs several wreaths of smoke into the air.] I am the fashions.
RICHARD [Going.] Insufferable! [He pauses at the door.]
MISTRESS MERTON [To Justice Merton.] Well—what do you think of that?